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^c!?^u^'^  ^^%^^.\  \f^^'T  »^, Hebron,  Jefferson 
wnVrti  P-.  1-  ■'•  T^"'-l?w  Weed  and  Helen  (Al- 
waia)  JJ.,  od.  pub.  schs. ;  LL  B  TT  of  Wiv; 
■Coll.  of  Lav,-.  1S80;  unmarried  Pnicticed  hi 
Wausau  Wis.,  since  1880;  mem  W  s  Ho  of 
Rep.,  1891  Senate.  1892-6 ;  Dem  candidate  for 
U.S.  Sen.nte.  1902.  1908;  pres.  Wis.  Vallov  EW- 
trie  Co  :  dir.  Wausau  Sulphate  F  bre  Co  Mar- 
athon Paper  Mills  Co..  Colonial  Land  Co"(Me  ) 
.  Mem    Wis.  Bar  Assn.  (ex-pres.).   Author-  Cri t i 

nwoWN,  -Neal,  lawyer, 


CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 


JOHN    MARSHALL    AND    HIS    TIMES 
By    NEAL    brown 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  PRESS 

WAUSAU   WISCONSIN 


COPYRIGHTED  1899  By  NEAL  BROWN 
COPYRIGHTED  1902  By  NEAL  BROWN 

FIKST   EDITION   DECEMBER    1899 
SECOND  EDITION   DECEMBER  1902 


CONTENTS 

ANDREW   LANG  .  .  .  , 

HONORE   DE   BALZAC 
WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY 
DEGENERATION  .  .  .  , 

JOHN   SMITH 

A  DEFERRED   CRITICISM    . 
AMERICAN   NOTES     .  .  .  , 

AMERICANISM   IN   LITERATURE 
JOHN   MARSHALL   AND   HIS    TIMES    , 


9 

22 

29 

60 

95 

136 

158 

174 

193 


550391 


ANDREW     LANG 

IN  pessimistic  mood,  one  feels  that  the  world 
of  letters  has  squandered  most  of  its  genius, 

and  is  traveling  toward  an  intellectual 
poorhouse.  The  great  poets  have  certainly 
departed.  Stevenson  has  gone,  and  there  are 
but  two  or  three  story-tellers  left.  Fiction  has 
become  short  and  choppy;  a  matter  of 
fragments,  without  sustained  flights.  The  few 
mountain  peaks  that  are  left  are  nodding.  The 
fruits  of  letters  seem  over-ripe  and  ready  to  fall 
rotting  to  the  ground.  It  is  a  transition  time, 
and  perhaps  the  soil  is  being  fertilized  by  the 
rank  growths  that  spring  up,  for  something 
better  to  come. 

We  are  seduced  from  healthy  standards  by 
fin  de  Steele  tendencies ;  the  colour  of  nature  is 
gone,  and  we  have  green  carnations  and 
unsubstantial,  unreal  things.  Men  are  made 
to  seem  like  shadows  walking.  We  are 
non-creative.  We  either  imitate,  or  else  we 
rebel   against    imitation,     and    the    pendulum 


10        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

swings  as  far  the  other  way.  The  result  is 
strange,  uncouth,  fancies  in  art  and  literature, 
and  our  romancists  make  monkeys  of  men,  to 
borrow  a  phrase  from  the  vernacular.  The 
commercial  autocrats  of  magazinedom,  and 
certain  of  the  hack  writers  of  newspaperdom 
set  the  fashion.  With  the  small  arts  of  puffery 
they  build  up  small  reputations  that  die  in  a 
day.  How  often  the  announcement ;  "agenius 
is  coming,  watch  for  him,  he  is  here, — he  has 
written  a  great  novel,  a  great  poem,  or  what 
not."  We  are  put  on  the  qui  vive,  and  by 
and  bye  when  the  poor  little  puffed-out  product 
struts  upon  the  stage  we  find  that  he  belongs 
to  the  ephemera.  These  strains  are  common. 
We  watch  anxiously  for  the  pool  to  move  that 
we  may  be  healed  of  these  grotesque  vagaries 
of  mental  disease.  We  gaze  longingly  up  the 
road  for  a  rescuer  and  see  but  wind-piled 
columns  of  choking  dust. 

We  comfort  ourselves  a  little  with  Kipling; 
and  Besant  and  Black  are  still  with  us,  but  we 
sigh  to  be  healed  of  Hardy's  decadence,  and  of 
the  tastelessness  of  THE  Martian — poor 
withered  fruit  of  DuMaurier's  dotage. 

We  cry  out  for  something  in  place  of  this 
dry   rot,    this    attenuated    intellectuality;    this 


ANDREW       LANG  11 

vain  struggling  after  startling  effects.  Our 
sensibilities  are  mangled  and  scarified  day  by 
day  by  the  rude  contact  of  a  crowd  of  weird, 
grotesque  figures,  who  flit  their  fantastic  way 
across  the  stage. 

We  are  surrounded  by  writers  of  queer 
distorted  verse,  drunken  with  their  own  turgid, 
muddy,  rhetoric;  dancing  fauns  and  satyrs 
holdingf  revels  over  social  uncleanness  like  crows 
over  carrion ;  dreamers  of  meaningless  visions, 
makers  of  verse  full  of  incomprehensible 
gibberish.  Are  they  of  healthy  human  kind 
who  beat  time  in  this  rout?  Is  that  young 
woman  who  writes  tigerish  verses  of  a  tigerish 
passion,  all  the  Sappho  we  shall  have?  Must 
we  call  a  plain  case  of  erotic  mania,  poetic 
fervour?  Is  that  jingler  of  fittle  verselets,  that 
journeyman  carver  of  odd  forms  of  speech,  to 
be  our  Tennyson?  Shall  we  force  ourselves  to 
see  deathless  harmony  in  a  mere  mush  of  words, 
simply  because  it  is  labeled  poetry?  Must  we 
give  JuDE  The  Obscure  and  The  Martian 
a  place  with  Vanity  Fair  and  David 
COPPERPIELD?  We  "have  been  nolled  by 
holy  bell  to  church,  have  sat  at  good  men's 
feasts,  "  and  we  cannot  forget  those  feasts.  If 
there  is  nothing  else,  give  us  some  good  stories 


12        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

of  bears  and  tigers,  of  jungles,  of  far-off  lands 
where  men  are  breathing  free,  and  where  there 
is  good  wholesome  blood-letting  and  killing. 

Thus  the  Pessimist. 

But  we  may  be  comforted  in  a  measure; 
we  have '  our  blessings  and  must  not  be 
unmindful  of  them.  Into  this  world  where 
everything  is  worn  out,  and  steeped  in  the 
ditch-water  of  dullness,  comes  an  interrogation 
point  of  a  man — Andrew  Lang.  If  needs  be, 
he  will  smash  every  idol  and  question  every 
fad.  Let  the  fashions  change  as  they  will,  here 
is  a  man  who  clings  to  the  verities  of  truth  and 
mental  good  health. 

He  is  cool-blooded  and  temperate  when 
others  are  furious.  He  retains  his  composure 
amidst  the  clamours  of  little  coteries  of  in- 
tellectual starvelings  frantically  admiring  each 
other,  and  bound  to  coerce  all  others  into  a  like 
service.  Into  this  market-place  of  small  wares, 
Lang  comes  as  the  Sealer  of  Weights  and 
Measures.  He  hears  unmoved  the  dingdonging 
of  the  auction  bell,  the  selling  of  names.  He 
cannot  be  hypnotized  by  the  posturings  and 
caperings  of  literary  mountebanks.  Over  the 
Kingdom  of  Fools,  he  is  the  upright  and  just 
judge,  with  plenary  jurisdiction. 


ANDREW       LANG  13 

Many  idols,  some  false  and  some  true,  have 
been  ranged  before  this  judgment  seat.  Along 
with  other  stucco-work,  is  poor  old  Poet  Bailey, 
the  solace  and  comfort  of  our  grandmothers. 
Look  in  your  Poe:ts'  Argosy  or  Gems  op 
Poetry,  and  you  will  unearth  among  other  an- 
cient treasures,  "O  no.  We  Never  Mention  Her," 
and  like  lollipops  and  sweet  things  from  Bailey. 
I  knew  Bailey  first  through  the  melancholia 
of  my  friend  Mr.  Richard  Swiveller,  who  turned 
from  the  perfidious  Sophy  to  Bailey's  soothing 
charm.  I  learned  Bailey  better  through  Lang, 
who  treated  his  reputation  charitably,  bestowing 
only  a  spanking — lightly  laid  on.  In  fact 
Lang  thinks  that  Bailey  might  have  been 
something  of  a  poet,  he  pleased  so  many  simple 
folk.  In  this  genial  fashion  does  he  judge  all 
small  sinners. 

But  when  Lang  reads  the  beadroll  of 
genius,  names  that"  were  before  heard  and 
forgotten  stick  like  burrs.  They  stand  for 
something.  The  dead  heroes  walk  again  in 
new-kindled  light.  Bunyan,  and  Montaigne, 
and  Scott,  and  all  great  and  noble  souls  gain 
new  nobility  and  pass  unscathed  through  that 
wise  and  kindly  judgment.  Lang  has  the 
grand  hailing  sign  and  password  of  the  kinship 


14        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

of  genius.  He  recognizes  his  fellows  for  what 
they  are  across  the  centuries  and  the  wide 
seas. 

Thus  it  is  that  he  flashed  recognition  over 
to  Holmes  and  Lowell,  of  all  Americans  the 
most  like  himself.  He  discovered  Kipling  in 
the  wilderness  of  India,  and  gave  him  a  passport 
into  the  world  of  letters.  And  now  Kipling 
has  become  the  man  of  three  continents,  with 
fame  enough  to  fill  them  all. 

Lang  is  best  as  a  critic  and  hero  worshipper. 
He  and  Nordau  are  almost  the  only  ones  left  to 
police  our  world  of  literary  nondescripts.  Carlyle, 
that  harsh  block  of  Scottish  granite  is  gone, 
and  humbug  and  cant  may  thrive  apace. 
Thackeray,  Keeper  of  a  House  for  the  Correction 
of  Snobs,  stalks  his  grim  beat  no  more. 
Macaulay,  who  so  deftly  put  Mr.  Robert  Mont- 
gomery in  the  pillory,  is  with  the  dust  of  the 
earth.  Dr.  Holmes,  vested  with  large  jurisdic- 
tion over  vulgar  pretenders  in  these  American 
Colonies,  has  no  further  judgments  to  execute. 
They  are  no  more.  Gallant  spirits,  loyal  to 
the  truth,  when  shall  we  look  upon  your  like 
again  !  You  yet  have  some  security  that  your 
work  will  be  carried  on,  for  Lang  is  your  living 
disciple.      You  may  be  sure  that  some  frothy 


ANDREW       LANG  IS 

cant  will  be  sponged  out;  some  humbugs  will 
be  dosed  heroically;  some  literary  reputations 
will  be  put  in  the  stocks  where  we  may  all  have 
our  fling  at  them.  Who  shall  say  that  these 
labours  have  been  in  vain?  The  snobs  did  not 
run  about  at  ease  while  Thackeray  was  at 
them.  Some  of  them  were  killed  and  some 
cured. 

Where,  for  instance  is  the  Fashionable 
Authoress — where  is  Lady  Fanny  Flummery? 
She  was  done  to  death  by  Thackeray,  and  has 
left  no  heirs.  I  believe  that  Lang  claims  he 
had  a  commission  once  to  discover  the  habitat 
of  her  successor,  but  was  compelled  to  make 
return  of  the  same  unsatisfied.  It  is  true 
Thackeray  was  not  always  so  successful.  He 
tried  to  suppress  the  poet  who  writes  Odes  to 
Dying  Things,  such  as  Frogs,  Brook  Trout,  or 
whatever  it  may  be,  but  he  could  not  do  it. 
She — I  use  the  feminine  advisedly — is  immortal ; 
suppress  her  in  one  generation  and  she  will 
break  out  in  the  next.  She  still  lives  to  infest 
the  watches  of  the  moon,  to  write  odes  and 
other  nameless  things.  She  was  a  Miss  Bunion 
in  Thackeray's  time  and  averred  that  her  youth 
resembled : 


16        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

A  violet  shrinking-  meanly 
When  blows  the  March  wind  keenly; 
A  timid  fawn  on  upland  lawn, 
Where  oak-boug-hs  rustle  g-reenly. 

These  thrice-crazed  ones  scatter  sweet 
flowers  about  us  still.  Their  dainty  ribbon-tied 
volumes  strew  our  libraries  like  autumn  leaves 
in  Vallombrosa.  Yet  after  all,  Thackeray's 
punishment  of  Miss  Bunion  was  not  in  vain. 
His  magisterial  process  is  still  out  against  her 
successors.  Nor  w^as  it  a  vain  labour  for  Mr. 
Yellowplush  and  the  Sallybrated  Mr.  Smith, 
over  a  cold  hoyster  in  the  Yellowplush  pantry, 
to  hale  Mr.  Bulvver  Lytton  to  the  torture. 
That  day  was  Fine  Writing  punctured  so  that 
the  sawdust  padding  ran  out  of  it. 

Unlike  Nordau,  Lang  is  not  a  Tartar  of 
savage  severity  toward  his  convicts.  That 
Vidocq  of  continental  letters  hangs  his  victims 
in  chains  in  barbaric  style,  for  the  sun  and  wind 
to  bleach.  In  this  he  is  like  Carlyle,  who  had 
a  troglodyte  nature  and  brained  his  with  a 
stone  axe.  Lang  has  an  Englishman's  love  of 
fair  play.  He  gives  quarter  and  treats  his 
victim  with  courtly  grace  during  the  nec- 
essary torture.  Captain  John  Smith  did 
not    behead  the  three  Turks  before  the  walls 


ANDREW       LANG  17 

of    Regall     with    more    blandness     or    gentle 
affabilIt3^ 

Lang  makes  the  desert  places  of  scholarship 
fair  and  pleasant  with  beauty  and  verdure. 
Greek  is  dry  and  arid  when  taught  by  dusty- 
brained  pedantic  parrots.  Lang  transmutes 
it  until  it  lives  again,  bringing  forth  boughs 
like  a  plant.  In  his  interpretation  its  dreary 
tasks  become  pleasant  pastimes.  He  would 
have  the  college  dry-as-dusts  give  way  for  one 
greater  than  they — the  deathless  singer,  the 
sightless  poet  who  saw  all  things;  who  found 
the  soul  of  song  in  far  off  mystic  Illium,  in 
surging  seas  and  on  battle  fields,  on  dreary 
ocean  coasts  and  lonely  lost  lands,  in  the  tombs 
of  the  dead  and  in  the  darkness  beyond,  in  the 
loves  and  hopes  of  statesmen  and  warriors,  of 
rustics  and  ploughmen  round  their  hearth-fires, 
in  the  legends  of  a  thousand  years,  in  the 
wanderings  of  the  Grecian  Chieftain  and  his 
return  to  the  great  hall  where  the  suitors  met ; 
who  could  pluck  his  dearest  thought  from  the 
welcome  home  which  the  dumb  and  faithful 
Argus  gave  the  wanderer.  Lang  would  have 
the  ardent  student  follow  Ulysses  in  his  wander- 
ings, unbelittled  by  translators,  until  by  and 
bye  the  splendour  and  power  of  that  wonderful 


18        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

melody  would  not  let  him  sleep.  Soon  a 
knowledge  of  Greek  would  come,  but  better 
than  this  would  come  a  knowledge  of  Homer. 
The  finest  thing  in  Lang  is  his  worship  of 
Homer.  He  seems  to  continually  hunger  and 
thirst  for  him.  He  holds  him  close  to  his  heart 
in  half -boyish  adoration  and  fervour.  He  is  a 
jealous  lover,  and  cannot  bear  that  Pope  and 
Morris  and  others  of  the  translator's  mob, 
should  put  Homer  into  their  rhyming  strait- 
jackets.  He  is  savage  upon  their  trespasses 
and  punishes  them  with  many  stinging  scoffs 
and  gibes.  He  has  lived  so  much  with  Homer, 
that  at  will  the  centuries  roll  back  and  he  sees 
the  world  that  Homer  saw.  He  loves  Homer's 
lightest  word  better  than  all  Pope's  stilted 
rhymes.  He  makes  one  mourn  for  his  ignorance 
of  Greek,  for  it  means  that  he  can  never  know 
Homer  for  all  that  he  is. 

Lang  has  the  advantage  of  being  a  Scotch- 
man with  English  advantages.  He  is  a  later 
Socrates  in  a  dress  coat.  Some  one  has  said 
that  he  is  too  finished  a  product  to  become 
popular  with  the  mass.  I  will  admit  that  he  is 
neither  dull  and  heavy  nor  light  and  vulgar. 
After  his  title-page  there  is  not  a  dull  line,  and 
even    a   title-page  with    the  name  of  Andrew 


ANDREW       LANG  19 

Lang  on  it  will  illuminate  a  whole  library. 
When  I  find  a  library  tenanted  by  Andrew- 
Lang,  I  confess  to  feeling  vastly  increased 
respect  for  the  proprietor.  Even  the  presence 
of  She,  or  Mr.  Barnes  of  New  York  in  that 
library,  cannot  entirely  destroy  this  good 
opinion.  The  scholar  and  man  of  letters  may 
by  inadvertence  become  the  victim  of  the  brazen 
train-boy. 

Lang  disdains  fine  writing,  and  yet 
always  writes  finely,  with  the  virile,  powerful 
touch  of  a  master.  He  does  not  hold  himself 
above  the  common  speech  of  people  if  by  ranging 
there  he  can  find  the  apt  word  or  the  rightly 
turned  phrase.  A  scholar  w'ith  the  art  to 
conceal  the  mere  repelling  externals  of  scholar- 
ship, Yale  or  Oxford  could  not  take  the  fine 
temper  out  of  such  a  soul  as  his.  He  did  not 
come  forth  from  the  pedagogic  inquisition 
afflicted  with  intellectual  rickets.  Whether  the 
University  Procrustes  found  him  too  long  or 
too  short,  cannot  be  discovered  from  any  tokens 
he  bears.  He  comes  into  a  world  of  much 
fustian  scholarship,  a  true  scholar,  a  loyal, 
perfect  knight  of  the  pen. 

But  Lang  is  not  all  the  critic,  not  all  the 
man  of  war — the  knight  whose  keen  and  biting 


20        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

rapier  plays  like  lightning  among  the  false  and 
the  foolish. 

There  is  another  Lang— a  poet  and  hero- 
worshipper,  a  lover  of  homely  things,  of  homely 
human-kind  ;  one  who  takes  content  in  watchino- 
his  peaches  ripen  on  the  wall  and  his  grapes  on 
their  trellis;  one  who  loves  walks  of  peace  and 
quietness,  and  who  can  see  the  "splendour  in 
the  grass,  the  glory  in  the  flower;"  one  who 
can  look  upon  lovers  strolling  together  in  the 
sweet  English  May-time  with  kindly  eyes  and 
softened  heart.  He  is  no  longer  young,  but  he 
can  remember  the  loves  and  hopes  of  youth. 
With  him  : 

Manhood's  noonday  shadows  hold 

The  dews  of  boyhood's  morning-. 
If   this    were   not    so    he   could    not    have 
written    such    verses   of    baffling   sweetness  as 
these: 

Who  wins  his  love  shall  lose  her; 
Who  loses  her  shall  gain; 

For  still  the  spirit  wooes  her, 
A  soul  without  a  stain; 

And  mem'ry  still  pursues  her, 
With  longing-s  not  in  vain. 


*         * 


ANDREW       LANG  21 

In  dreams  she  grows  not  older, 

The  land  of  dreams  among-, 
Though  all  the  world  wax  colder, 

Though  all  the  songs  be  sung; 
In  dreams  shall  he  behold  her, 

Still  fair,  and  kind,  and  young. 


HONORE     DE     BALZAC 

AS  Balzac  is  favored  with  a  minor  place  in 
Max  Nordau's  Gallery  of  Degenerates,  I 
am  disposed  to  make  a  deprecatory  bow 
to  that  eminent  vivisectionist.  Some  characters 
should  be  described  by  describing  their  op- 
posites — Mr.  Gulliver  said  that  he  could  better 
realize  the  huge  dimensions  of  the  Brobingnag- 
gians,  because  of  his  recent  experiences  in 
Lilliput. 

If  I  shall  take  liberties  of  comparison  with 
any  of  the  idols  in  our  home  temple  of  fame,  it 
is  not  to  make  them  seem  more  diminutive,  but 
to  give  a  better  perspective  for  Balzac.  Few  of 
our  countrymen  have  broken  into  his  prodigious 
storehouse.  The  charming  insularity  of  the 
truly  patriotic  American,  prejudices  him  against 
the  products  of  the  effete  despotisms.  He  says, 
we  have  our  own  shrines,  why  go  abroad  to 
worship? 

Hence  the  elevation  of  Howells,  who  never 
says  damn,   and  who  never  levels  even  a  small 

22 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC  23 

corner  of  his  faithful  kodacon  any  of  the  tabooed 
vulgarities.  I  confess  I  prefer  a  somewhat  coarse 
bluntness  to  this  chaste  veiling.  I  def}^  any  one, 
for  instance,  to  tell  just  what  sins  Ho  wells  intends 
to  impute  to  Bartley  Hubbard.  If  Balzac  had 
dealt  with  him,  he  would  have  stripped  his  soul 
naked,  even  if  it  did  take  coarse  and  vulgar 
words  to  do  it. 

As  w^e  progress  in  social  development,  our 
society  grows  more  clubbish.  Gentle  woman 
organizes  henself,  and  pursues  and  gluts  herself 
on  Culture,  without  ceasing.  We  have  Arnold 
Clubs  and  Browning  Clubs,  and  what  not,  and 
the  stones  of  Rome  and  the  number  of  bricks 
in  St.  Paul's  must  be  counted  in  didactic  essay. 
Culture  does  not  have  much  chance  to  escape 
'  these  indefatigable  pursuers.  Yet  those  who 
grow  weary  of  this  child's  game  of  Culture, 
this  fishing  in  a  water-pail  and  drawing  nothing 
up,  can  find  easy  relief  in  the  wisdom  and 
strength  of  Balzac. 

Why  watch  continually  the  never-moving 
waters  of  smug  literary  mediocrity,  when  you 
have  only  to  climb  the  steeps  a  little  way  and 
look  upon  the  mighty  sea?  This  immortal 
genius  can  bide  its  time  however.  It  may  yet 
become  the  fad  of  the  Culture  Clubs ;  a  reigning 


24        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

mode  in  literature.  The  LiLY  OF  The  Valley, 
or  Ursula,  of  crystal  purity,  may  yet  fill  the  place 
of  the  highly  immoral  Trilby.  Pere  Goriot 
may  supersede  Howell's  Broomfield  Corey,  or 
that  delightful  old  philistine,  who  gained 
ephemeral  riches  in  mineral  paint. 

We  assure  those  who  have  become  ac- 
customed to  the  pure  and  elevated  morality  of 
Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  and  THE  Quick  and  the 
Dead,  that  they  will  find  nothing  to  shock  or 
disturb  them  in  Balzac.  The  austere  virgin. 
Propriety,  should  also  be  warned  that  she  will 
see  nothing  very  offensive  in  Balzac  and  that 
she  had  better  not  take  the  trouble  to  look  for 
it.  If  she  should  by  any  chance  have  breathed 
too  long  the  mephitic  sewer  gas  of  the  Erotic 
School  of  American  Fiction  and  Poetry,  she 
may  not  at  first  have  free  respiration  in  the 
higher  altitudes  of  Balzac. 

It  is  true  that  he  does  not  aim  to  have  a 
moral,  ticketed  and  labeled  as  such,  for  every 
tale.  He  paints  human  life  as  he  finds  it,  in 
its  baseness  and  glory,  in  its  weakness  and  its 
strength.  He  does  not  announce  the  moral, 
yet  it  is  always  present;  in  the  punishment 
and  repentance  of  the  wicked,  in  the  fives  of 
the   pure   in   heart,     and  in    the   hells    which 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC  25 

evil  souls  build  for  themselves.  Our  gentle 
E.  P.  Roe,  who  should  be  called  Pencils- 
and-Pickles,  he  is  so  much  affected  by  young 
women  towards  the  end  of  their  bread- 
and-butter  age,  always  builds  his  moral 
first,  and  then  fits  his  story  to  it  afterwards. 
He  carries  his  pulpit  around  on  his  back  as  a 
snail  does  its  residence,  or  an  organ-grinder  his 
instrument  of  torture  and  if  he  gets  half  a 
chance  he  will  set  it  up  and  preach. 

Balzac  tells  his  story  and  lets  the  moral 
take  care  of  itself.  He  has  no  patent  theological- 
seminary  plan  for  coverting  sinners.  Where  is 
there  a  finer  sermon  than  the  conversion  of 
Doctor  Minoret,  led  to  repentance  by  the  child 
he  loved. 

"Can  it  be  that  you   believe    in    God?" 
she   cried   with  artless  joy,  letting  fall  the 

tears  that  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

*  *  * 

"My  God,"  he  said  in  a  trembling  voice, 
raising  his  head,  "if  any  one  can  obtain  my 
pardon  and  lead  me  to  Thee,  surely  it  is  this 
spotless  creature.  Have  mercy  on  the 
repentant  old  age  that  this  poor  child 
presents  to  Thee. " 
Balzac    has    the    carelessness    and     abandon 


26        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

of  conscious  power.  He  plays  the  prodigal  with 
his  talents.  The  sweepings  of  his  attic  would 
stock  a  dozen  common  skulls  with  genius,  and 
make  a  dozen  latter-day  reputations.  He  is 
not  concerned  with  the  petty  fears  and  alarms 
of  small  minds.  One  of  their  gods  is  Brevity. 
Your  writer  of  magazine  novelettes;  your  mere 
parlour  entertainer,  affects  to  abhor  the  Super- 
fluous Word. 

Balzac  never  bothers  his  head  about  it. 
His  words  come  in  great  torrents,  and  the 
excess  cannot  hide  his  kingly  port.  Always 
present  is  the  dramatic  quality.  You  watch 
with  terrour  for  his  next  effect.  Our  colder 
Teutonic  blood  has  too  little  of  this  fire,  and 
so  genius  becomes  atrophied  and  lifeless.  Afraid 
to  give  Nature  speech,  our  strugglers  after 
fame  belittle  the  passions  and  make  them  tame 
and  commonplace,  or  paint  them  in  strange 
bizarre  colors  and  in  mangled  grotesqueness. 
How  different  the  mighty  genius  of  Balzac! 
When  Doctor  Minoret  weeps,  Balzac  says : — 
The  tears  of  old  men  are  as  terrible  as 
those  of  children  are  natural. 

The  sorrows  of  Pere  Goriot  have  a 
thousand  eloquent  tongues.  What  a  profound 
and    immeasurable    baseness    is    that    which 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC  27 

robbed  him  of  his  peace!  Throned  in  the 
majesty  of  death  his  whispers  are  heartrending. 
Sometimes  he  babbles  childish  nonsense,  and 
sometimes  shrieks  his  last  terrible  resentments. 
He  calls  for  his  daughters  alternately  in  curses 
and  words  of  endearment.  You  can  feel  him 
groping  through  the  thick  shadows  for  them, 
but  they  do  not  come.  It  is  King  Lear,  with 
a  difference.  Finally,  in  the  moment  of  dissolu- 
tion, God  is  merciful  to  this  shattered  soul. 
He  sees  again  his  daughters  as  little  children, 
and  calls  them  by  the  childish  names  he  once 
gave  them  ;  and  so  he  passes  from  this  inhuman 
world. 

One  must  walk  with  Balzac  in  fear  and 
dread.  His  are  not  always  the  pleasant  tasks 
of  an  idle  hour.  He  will  lead  you  through  the 
hell  of  the  living  where  you  will  meet  dreadful 
shades  and  weeping,  crucified,  souls.  He  will 
also  show  you  Complacent  Respectability  sitting 
in  placid  ease,  "storing  yearly  little  dues  of 
wheat  and  wine  and  oil."  He  preaches  a 
thousand  sermons  of  the  erring  majesty  of 
human  life,  but  he  does  not,  Uke  Zola,  batten 
on  dunghills,  and  show  you  how  much  muck 
he  can  dig  up. 


28        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

And  now,  what  is  the  main  difference 
between  him  and  the  Lilliputians? 

They  are  mere  photographers,  taking 
machine  pictures  with  painful  care.  It  is  the 
difference  between  a  kodac  and  the  brush  of  a 
great  master. 

He  may  be  ever  so  careless  and  slovenly, 
but  he  has  the  hand  of  power,  and  when  he 
sweeps  his  brush  across  the  canvas,  that  canvas 
becomes  one  of  the  dear  and  priceless  treasures 
of  the  world  through  all  the  centuries. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

CAPTIOUS  persons  may  insist  that  they  be 
made  acquainted  with  the  authority 
which  prompts  this  further  presentation 
of  Thackeray  lore. 

This  seems  to  be  agreeable  to  the  demand 
that  the  distant  suburbs  of  culture  shall 
remain  in  eternal  calm,  except  for  the  harryings 
of  the  Chatauqua  Course  and  the  literary  tea 
and  toast  of  the  culture  clubs.  Yet  this  mes- 
sage will  be  unpretending,  as  becomes  one  from 
a  place  so  far  distant  from  the  habitat  of 
learned  and  approved  reviewers.  The  point  of 
view  at  least  should  not  unduly  prejudice  the 
relation,  for  the  ferment  of  London,  Boston 
and  New  York  is  busy  upon  newer  themes,  and 
the  soil  once  worked  to  exhaustion  now  lies 
fallow. 

Not  consenting  to  the  paramount  jurisdic- 
tion of  any  reviewer  whosoever,  there  is  here 
presented  some  cumulative  testimony  on 
Thackeray,  for  it  is  the  duty  of  each  generation 

29 


30        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

to  testify  to  all  that  has  aforetime  been  done  in 
letters.  Thus  divers  testimonies  can  be  pre- 
served for  the  use  of  posterity  when  it  shall 
make  up  its  final  verdict.  This  review  is 
offered  bv  one  who  loves  his  task,  a  witness  on 
minor  points,  merely  as  a  deposition  in  rei 
perpettia  memoriam,  for  what  even  such  an 
one  has  thought  of  Thackeray  may  become  a 
matter  of  curious  and  valuable  interest  some 
hundreds  of  years  hence.  The  toiler  and 
dreamer  must  look  to  that  final  judgment,  and 
not  the  applause  of  the  easily  satisfied,  who 
may  crown  a  favourite  to-day  and  uncrown  him 
to-morrow. 

Not  in  profane  analogy  to  the  final  judg- 
ment in  the  moral  and  spiritual  world,  but  in 
the  conceit  of  an  idle  hour,  one  can  imagine  a 
court  of  last  resort  for  authors,  in  which  there 
shall  be  a  final  decree  on  all  fames  and  reputa- 
tions; where  worth  and  not  names  shall 
control;  where  even  some  rejected  manuscripts 
will  give  their  testimony  not  disqualified  by  any 
past  editorial  verdict;  where  some  obscure  poets 
shall  have  due  commendation,  and  the  swollen 
reputations  of  some  great  men  will  suffer  proper 
diminution.  The  poor  scholar  who  has  es- 
caped prosperity  shall  there  be  crowed  with  the 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     31 

tardy  bays,  and  many  darkened  garrets  of  our 
Grub  Streets  will  become  visibly  glorious  in  that 
effulgent  justice.  The  magazine  magnate  who 
hears  not  the  voice  of  genius  until  it  be  properly 
advertised,  and  who  has  spent  his  life-time 
putting  its  inspirations  into  strait-jackets;  the 
Professional  Organizer  of  Clacques  for  Small 
Performers;  the  Critics  Banditti  who  hold  up 
all  travelers  on  the  road  to  fame,  will,  let  us 
trust,  on  that  last  iudo-rnent  dav  find  their 
deserved  place  among  the  goats.  But  surely 
there  are  some  fames  that  will  grow  brighter 
and  brighter  in  that  last  winnowing.  Unless 
the  known  standards  of  excelence  shall  fail,  in 
all  the  world  of  nineteenth  century  authorship, 
Thackeray  w^ill  be  given  first  place. 

Sometimes,  owing  to  the  failing  memories 
of  men,  priceless  things  are  lost  sight  of  for  a 
time,  yet  assurance  seems  now  so  full,  that  it 
cannot  be  so  with  Thackeray.  With  him, 
however,  more  than  with  any  other  author,  the 
effect  he  produced  on  his  readers  forms  a 
curious  study.  Som.e  minds  instinctively  dis- 
like him  and  yet  delight  in  Dickens  and  Bulwer 
Lytton.  Such  soils,  however  well  sown  with 
Thackerayism,  blossom  only  into  the  meagerest 
appreciation.     This  trait  is  like  unto  the  fabled 


32       CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

inability  of  the  North  Briton  to  comprehend  a 
joke.  Is  it  because  the  satire  of  Thackeray  is 
so  sweeping  and  all-embracing  that  even  the 
most  obtuse  reader  imagines  he  is  being  mocked 
at  and  that  all  of  his  own  vanities  and  follies 
are  being  rudely  caricatured  before  his  eyes? 
Happy  is  the  man  who  can  laugh  at  his  own 
follies  and  jest  at  himself  for  the  fool  that  he 
was  on  yesterday.  To  him  Thackeray  is  a 
well-spring  of  delight. 

Both  the  comedy  and  tragedy  of  life  have 
a  sameness  from  generation  to  generation.  It 
is  a  commonplace  to  say  that  names  and  social 
customs  and  forms  of  government  change,  but 
the  nature  of  man  remains  as  it  was,  and  that 
the  creations  of  Moliere  and  Shakespeare  will 
always  have  living  duplicates.  Who  has  not 
known  a  TartufFe?  Even  a  Falstaff  is  not 
difficult  to  find,  and  as  for  Nym,  Pistol  and 
Bardolph,  they  are  as  common  as  sawdust 
saloons. 

I  have  met  the  Old  Campaigner — busy 
breeder  of  divorces  that  she  is — and  Becky 
Sharp  still  lives  and  continues  to  shoot  young 
curates  and  other  impressionable  males  dead 
with  her  soft  glances. 

On    the    very    threshold    of    Thackeray's 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     33 

world  one  cannot  help  but  linger  a  little  over 
his  endearing  personal  qualities.  Soon  he  will 
show  us  life's  baseness  and  meanness,  and  it 
seems  good  to  pause  over  some  happier  things 
before  launching  into  the  blacker  and  deeper 
currents.  He  was  one  of  the  lovable  men  of 
literature.  Count  them  up  and  you  will 
see  how  few  of  these  there  are.  Some  of 
the  greatest  names  stand  for  icebergs  of 
personality,  and  you  can  feel  the  lowering 
temperature  as  you  near  them.  Do  you  always 
love  the  man  behind  the  book?  It  is  rank 
treason  to  suggest  it,  but  can  you  feel  affection 
for  the  man  Dickens,  for  the  man  Tennyson, 
or  for  Bulwer  Lytton?  I  confess  that  I  cannot ; 
they  are  only  graven  images  and  mere  makers 
of  books,  as  remotely  frigid  as  the  north  pole. 
There  is  some  coldness  in  the  blood  accounting 
for  this  that  cannot  be  explained  or  analyzed. 
But,  what  warmth  and  cheer  and  glow  of  good 
fellowship  and  kindliness  radiates  from  Thack- 
eray and  Lamb  and  Holmes.  When  you  read 
their  words  they  become  alive  again,  and  when 
you  think  of  them  as  dead,  it  brings  a  sharp 
pang  of  grief ;  a  sense  of  personal  loss.  Time 
cannot  still  their  heart-throbs,  and  life  and  love 
are  pulsing  yet,  despite  the  tokens  of  mortality. 


34        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

It  may  be  that  this  repellant  coolness  in 
Tennyson  and  Dickens  is  due  to  the  drop  of 
Semetic  blood  ascribed  to  them  by  anthropolog- 
ical investigators.  I  think  it  is  Besant  who 
says  that  this  tincture  of  the  elder  race  is 
necessary  to  mental  perfection,  and  that  where 
it  comes  it  leavens  with  an  added  genius  the 
tough  stubborn  fibre  of  the  Teutonic  intellect. 
He  adds  that  we  all  need  a  little  of  it  in  order 
to  properly  ripen  our  talents. 

In  the  lesser  memoirs  of  the  great  poet  we 
read  that  after  he  had  written  The  Revenge 
and  committed  it  to  his  publisher's  hands  and 
before  it  had  become  public  property,  he  invited 
a  choice  company  to  hear  it  read.  Probably  no 
one  but  he  could  bring  together  such  a  group 
of  listeners  within  the  four  seas.  His  grave 
biographer  describes  his  reading  generally  as  a 
"mysterious  incantation  exceedingly  impress- 
ive, "  and  as  he  read  on  towards  the  end  every 
heart  was  awed  by  the  wonderful  power  of  the 
immortal  poem. 

He  finally  came  to  the  close  with  such  a 
strange  mixture  of  genius  and  thrift  that  his 
hearers  were  frozen  lifeless : — 

And  they  mann'd  the  Revenge  with  a 
swarthier  alien  crew, 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     35 

And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and 

long-'d  for  her  own  ; 
When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had 

ruin'd  awoke  from  sleep, 
And  the  water  beg"an  to  heave  and  the 

weather  to  moan, 
And  or  ever  that  evening-  ended  a  great 

gale  blew, 
And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised 

by  an  earthquake  grew, 
Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails 

and  their  masts  and  their  flags, 
And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on 

the  shot-shatter'd  navy  of  Spain, 
And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went  down 

by  the  island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main, 

and  the  beggars  only  gave  me  three 
hundred  pounds  for  it — " 
quoth  ray  Lord  Tennyson,  not  making 
pause  at  all  between  the  last  words  of  the  poem 
and  his  execrations  on  the  hard-hearted 
publishers  who  had  driven  a  close  bargain  with 
him.  It  is  hard  to  have  the  deathless  minstrel 
sweep  one  hand  across  his  harp,  while  with  the 
other  he  clinks  and  counts  his  guineas. 
Doubtless   not  one  of   that    noble   assemblage 


36        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

ever  forgot  the  scene,  or  could  ever  look  on 
Locksley  Hall  as  anything  but  a  commercial 
pot-boiler,  or  on  In  Memoriam  as  other  than 
a  task  to  be  paid  for  at  so  much  a  line.  Behind 
the  scenes  one  sees  dimly  the  publishers  and 
the  poet,  driving  the  bargains  of  an  old 
clothes  shop. 

How  different  this  from  Dante  who  "could 
hold  heart-break  at  bay  for  twenty  years  and 
not  let  himself  die  until  his  task  was  done,  "  or 
Lamb  "winning  his  way,  with  sad  and  patient 
soul,  through  evil  and  pain,  and  strange 
calamity."  These  two  marshaled  life's  forces 
through  black  shadows,  the  one  with  a  warrior's 
stern,  set  face,  that  never  lightened  and  the 
other  with  pleasant  jest,  heedless  of  whether  he 
won  or  lost,  so  he  but  hid  the  heartache.  Who 
could  turn  from  this  real  tragedy  to  Byron's 
counterfeit,  or  feel  affection  for  him  in  his 
theatrical  sorrow  as  he  displayed  in  many 
postures  his  many-times-broken  heart  to  the 
public  gaze? 

It  is  for  him  who  is  a  man  first  and  a 
genius  afterwards,  that  we  reserve  our  best 
affection.  We  accord  this  to  Thackeray  for  he 
had  the  heart  of  a  child  that  worldly  wisdom 
could  not  spoil. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     37 

It  is  a  far  leap  from  these  thoughts  to 
Thackeray's  land  of  snobs.  He  is  markedly 
eminent  as  the  only  great  specialist  on  this 
subject.  He  has  taken  them  apart  and  put 
them  together,  and  reduced  them  to  their 
original  elements.  He  has  admired,  dissected 
and  played  with  them,  and  artfully  drawn  them 
out  and  felinely  leaped  upon  them  from 
cunning  concealments.  He  has  dug  and 
searched  for  snobs  in  all  social  formations,  and 
never  without  reward.  He  has  made  scientific 
research  into  all  kinds,  qualities,  conditions 
and  degrees  of  snobs,  and  classified,  arranged, 
named,  numbered,  indexed  and  cross-referenced 
them.  He  has  grilled  them  sometimes  savagely, 
and  sometimes  lovingly,  for  he  had  a  grotesque 
form  of  affection  for  them  such  as  Dickens  said 
that  he  had  for  the  pigs  which  he  saw  disporting 
themselves  in  the  streets  of  New  York.  Given 
one  scale  of  any  species  of  snob,  and  Thackeray 
could  construct  the  complete  animal.  He  takes 
a  just  pride  in  his  cabinet  of  snobs  where  there 
are  multitudes  of  them  artistically  arranged 
with  pens  stuck  through  their  snobbish  thoraces. 
Among  these  remains  are  Clerical,  Royal, 
Military,  Respectable,  Great,  City,  Banking, 
Scholastic,  Irish,  Sporting,  University,  Theat- 


38        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

rical,  Professional  and  Official  Snobs.  Being 
pressed  to  define  Literary  Snobs,  the  satirical 
rogue  says : 

The  fact  is  that  in  the  literary  profession 

there  are  no  snobs.     Look  around  over  the 

whole  body  of  British  men  of  letters,  and  I 

defy  you   to   point  out  a   sing-le  instance  of 

vulgfarity,  or  envy,  or  assumption. 

This  genial  snob-hunter  sometimes  beats 

up  his  own  thickets.     He  admits  that  he  would 

rather  walk  down  Pall  Mall  arm  in  arm  with  a 

Lord  than  with  a  commoner,    and  would  feel  a 

snobbish  elation  if  he  could  only  be  seen  between 

two  dukes  in  Picadilly.    In  the  divine  ardour  of 

the  chase  he  is  willing  to  jeeringly  trice  himself 

up.     If   at    any   time  one   feels  a  tendency  to 

snobbishness,    he   can    de-snobize    himself    by 

consulting  Thackeray's  probe  and  scalpel.     We 

arise  from  this  feast  of  snobs  to  ask  if  there  is 

any  place  free  from  the  Snob?     Is  there  no  wild 

of  England,  Scotland  or  Ireland,  or  Thibet  or 

Crim-Tartary,    or  among  the  Anthropophagi, 

where  a  snob  is  not? 

Thackeray  gave  but  the  most  casual 
investigation  to  the  fauna  of  this  continent.  He 
had  doubtless  read  our  history  and  knew  that 
there   were    no   snobs   here,    and   that  in  this 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     39 

repu  blic  all  men  were  created  equal  and  recognized 
neither  rank  nor  social  condition  as  conferring 
any  distinction.  He  must  have  found  that 
snobs,  like  weeds,  do  not  grow  on  new  soils. 
No,  we  do  not  love  a  lord  better  than  a 
commoner;  we  do  not  envy  our  neighbours;  we 
do  not  think  meanly  of  and  inflict  slights  on 
those  less  fortunate  than  ourselves;  we  do  not 
think  better  of  any  man  because  of  his  wealth. 
No  one  here  "meanly  admires  mean  things," 
which  is  his  definition  of  a  snob.  Our  interna- 
tional marriages  with  foreign  titles  have  been 
possible  only  because  of  the  singular  worth  of  the 
groom  involved,  and  also,  by  reason  of  the — 
worth  of  the  bride.  With  us,  kind  hearts  are 
more  than  coronets,  and,  thank  heaven,  we  have  a 
proper  contempt  for  the  social  sycophancy  of  the 
degenerate  Briton.  Those  fecund  Irish  kings 
and  noble  families  of  the  three  islands  have  no 
noble  descendants  here  v^ho  brag  of  their  long 
descent,  and  we  who  know  that  our  ancestry  is 
noble,  never  mention  it  and  do  not  esteem 
ourselves  for  it. 

There  is  one  line  of  fiction  in  which 
Thackeray  is  not  great.  He  portrayed  no 
murderers,  no  Napoleonic  criminals  who  slept 
in  the  contriving  of  crime  and  awoke  to  do  it. 


40        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

He  had  no  love  for  slumming,  and  did  not,  like 
a  respectable  sort  of  scavenger,  rake  over  the 
refuse  of  the  London  streets  for  lessons  and 
sermons  and  fine  morals  with  which  to  adorn 
his  romance. 

He  made  the  novel  a  public  conveyance 
where  all  sorts  of  people  might  find  carriage; 
where  Parson  Honey  man  is  rudely  jostled  by 
Mr.  Moss,  and  the  gentle  Amelia  and  Captain 
Raff  touch  elbows;  where  callow  Pendennis 
hotly  courts  the  ancient  Fotheringay,  chap- 
eroned by  the  redoubtable  Costigan;  where 
Becky  Sharp  and  her  vis-a-vis,  the  stately 
Semiramis  Pinkerton,  picked  up  as  the  coach 
rolls  by  Chiswick  Mall,  make  faces  at  each 
other;  where  the  Castlewoods  cease  not  their 
genteel  family  quarrels,  and  Lady  Maria  begins 
that  little  Affair  with  the  French  dancing 
master;  where  the  Virginians  arrange  for  the 
early  morning  meeting  with  their  lately  esteemed 
friend,  G.  W. ;  where  Philip  glowers  hatred  at 
his  father  and  Clive  and  Barnes  Newcome  fall 
to  cousinly  insults  and  blows;  while  ever 
watchful  in  his  corner  sits  a  humorous  "Literary 
Gent,  "  as  the  genial  Harry  Foker  calls  him, 
taking  notes  and  chuckling  now  and  then  as 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     41 

the  coach  speeds  away,  and  the  ruts  bring-  out 
the  temper  of  the  passengers. 

There  are  inns  to  be  made,  and  new 
passengers  to  be  taken  up,  and  old  ones  to  be 
put  down,  and  country  roads  stretching  before, 
and  narrow  towns  to  pass,  and  by  and  bye, 
the  din  and  roar  of  the  great  Babylon.  But 
the  journey  is  never  long  and  never  weary,  for 
always  you  are  keeping  close  company  with 
human  life,  and  are  looking  breathlessly  into 
its  meanness  and  its  majesty. 

Take  joy  of  this  ferment  and  turmoil  of 
living  and  loving  and  hating,  and  so  that  you 
may  love  it  the  more  heartily,  turn  and  look 
upon  the  single-seated  equipages  of  romance 
that  are  trundled  before  us  in  this  part  of  the 
world.  The  single  nondescript  passenger  that 
you  see  is  the  author's  fad  in  morals,  religion 
or  politics,  or  some  flotsam  gleaned  from  the 
nine  days'  talk  of  the  tea  parties,  or  furbished 
out  of  the  last  labour  strike,  the  newest  phase 
of  the  New  Woman,  the  Chicago  Fire,  the 
Charleston  Earthquake,  or  the  last  visitation  of 
Cholera  or  Yellow  Fever.  Any  commonplace 
of  this  kind  furnishes  plot  and  pabulum  and  all 
manner  of  excellencies  to  our  story- writers 
of    pauperized    wits.     Among    them    are   the 


42        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS- 

Obituary  Novelists,  who,  like  the  Obituary 
Poets  in  the  country  newspapers,  go  hand  in 
hand  with  Death.  Let  Death  come  to  a  city 
with  generous  stroke,  in  Flood,  Fire,  Earth- 
quake, or  Plague  and  the  public  can  draw  at 
ninety  days  on  the  Obituary  Novelists  for  this 
mortuary  aftermath  of  fiction.  Thus  comes 
our  Dreary  School  of  Romance. 

Its  upbuilders  select  a  supposed  dramatic 
situation  or  center  and  round  it  range  the 
puppet  characters,  who  chatter  from  page  to 
page  some  text  of  commonplace  and  are  as 
sentient  and  alive  as  a  lot  of  wooden  Indians. 
Thus  we  have  had;  "Bulwarks  Burned  Down," 
"The  Earth  Shook,"  "Saved  by  the  Flood," 
"Plague  Stricken,  "  etc.,  etc.  "  The  Washer- 
wofnan  of  Finchley  Common^ ' '  would  be  of 
riotous  interest  as  compared  with  some  of  these. 
Their  admirers  are  one  w^ith  the  Exeter  Hall 
enthusiast  who  declared  that  he  would  rather 
be  the  author  of  the  tract  named  than  of 
Paradise  Lost. 

But  come  away  to  where  we  have  better 
mettle.  Thackeray  deals  with  respectable 
wickedness  in  the  main;  a  wickedness  of 
cushioned  pews  and  pretty  pulpits,  and  em- 
inently virtuous  drawing  rooms;  of  assemblies 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     43 

where  highly  respectable  people  such  as  you 
and  I  know,  eat,  drink  and  make  merry;  a 
wickedness  of  pleasant  family  circles  where  all 
hands  quarrel  in  a  perfectly  genteel  way;  a 
wickedness  which  goes  hand  in  hand  with 
Christian  church-going,  with  Christian  alms- 
giving, with  loyal  support  of  the  State  and  all 
established  institutions;  a  wickedness  which 
dresses  in  the  paint  and  tinsel  of  conventional 
moralities,  which  sits  in  the  boxes  in  Vanity 
Fair,  and  looks  down  with  stern  scorn  on  the 
ungenteel  low-down  wickedness  of  the  pit ; — in 
short  a  philistine,  pharisaical,  canting,  time- 
serving, toadying,  sham-loving,  holier-than-thou 
wickedness  that  cankers  and  rots  character  like 
a  leprosy.  You  will  sometimes  turn  your  head 
away  from  this  rout  of  respectable  sinners  for 
shame  of  our  common  humanity. 

You  do  not  need  to  pray  to  be  saved  from 
the  crimes  of  the  statute  books,  but  you  may 
need  to  be  saved  from  the  sins  of  the  Old 
Campaigner,  of  Mrs.  Bute  Crawley,  of  Barnes 
Newcome,  of  Old  Osborne,  of  Lady  Kevv,  and 
the  Reverend  Honeyman,  of  the  Pontos,  the 
Botibels,  the  Clutterbucks,  and  Lady  Susan 
Scraper,  and  many  others.  These  were  all  of 
approved  respectability  and  some  of  them  made 


44        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

a  great  figure  in  Vanity  Fair.  They  did  not 
pick  pockets  or  commit  murder,  but  acted  in 
all  things  as  a  great  many  respectable  people 
about  you  do,  yet  how  you  despise  and  loathe 
them.  These  are  Thackeray's  Helots,  drunken 
with  greed  and  selfishness  and  all  uncharitable- 
ness,  shown  as  examples  of  what  respectable 
men  and  women  may  do  and  still  keep  their 
rags  of  respectability. 

We  do  not  have  to  be  warned  against  the 
wickedness  of  Sykes,  and  Fagin,  and  Jonas 
Chuzzlewit,  of  Quilp  and  Brass.  Their  de- 
pravity has  no  enticement;  it  is  vulgar  and 
repelant.  The  warning  in  Thackeray's  sermons 
is  for  the  Respectable  Wicked,  and  the  most 
complacent  sinner  will  wince  under  this  lash. 
Thackeray  loved  a  man,  and  would  have  nothing 
less.     With  him : 

One  ruddy  drop  of  manly  blood 
The  surging  sea  outweighs. 
He  never  spares  himself.     Here  is  one   of 
his  self-indictments: 

I  never  could  count  how  many  causes 
went  to  produce  any  given  effect  in  a  person's 
life,  and  have  been,  for  my  own  part  many  a 
time  quite  misled  in  my  own  case,  fancying 
some  grand,  some  magnanimous,  some  vir- 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     45 

tuous  reason  for  an  act  of  which  I  was  proud, 
when  lo!  some  pert  little  satirical  monitor 
spring's  up  inwardly,  upsetting-  the  fond 
humbug  which  I  was  cherishing- — the  pea- 
cock's tail  wherein  my  absurd  vanity  had  clad 
itself — and  says;  "Away  with  boasting-;  I 
am  the  cause  of  your  virtue  my  lad.  You  are 
pleased  thatyesterday  at  dinneryou  refrained 
from  the  dry  champagne.  My  name  is 
Worldly  Prudence,  not  Self  Denial,  and  I 
caused  you  to  refrain.  You  are  pleased 
because  you  g-ave  a  guinea  to  Diddler.  I  am 
Laziness,  not  Generosity  which  inspired 
you.  You  hug-  yourself  because  you  resisted 
other  temptation?  Coward,  it  was  because 
you  dared  not  run  the  risk  of  the  wrong- 1 
Out  with  your  peacock's  plumage  1  Walk  off 
in  the  feathers  which  Nature  gave  you,  and 
thank  Heaven  they  are  not  altog-ether 
black. " 

Yet  the  same  hand  wrote  this  of  a  woman 
looking  back  forty  years  to  the  love  of  her  youth: 
Oh,  what  tears  have  they  shed,  g-entle 
eyesl  Oh,  what  faith  has  it  kept,  tender 
heart  I  If  love  lives  through  all  life,  and 
survives  through  all  sorrow;  and  remains 
steadfast  with  us  through  all  changes;  and 


46        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

in  all  darkness  of  spirit  burns  brig-htly ;  and, 
if  we  die,  deplores  us  forever,  and  loves  still 
equally;  and  exists  with  the  very  last  gasp 
and  throb  of  the  faithful  bosom — whence  it 
passes  with  the  pure  soul  beyond  death;  sure 
it  shall  be  immortal. 

And  like  It  is  what  he  said  of  the  gulf  of 
time,  and  parting,  and  grief: 

And  the  past  and  its  dear  histories,  and 
youth  and  its  hopes  and  passions,  and  tones 
and  looks  forever  echoing"  in  the  heart,  and 
present  in  the  memory — these  no  doubt,  poor 
Clive  saw  and  heard  as  he  looked  across  the 
great  gulf  of  time,  and  parting  and  grief,  and 
beheld  the  woman  he  had  loved  for  many 
years.  There  she  sits;  the  same,  but 
changed;  as  gone  from  him  as  if  she  were 
dead;  departed  indeed  into  another  sphere, 
and  into  a  kind  of  death. 

If  Thackeray  dearly  loved  a  man,  he  also 
loved  a  boy.  He  is  the  historian,  the  epic  poet 
of  boyhood.  The  boy  is  an  unknown  quantity 
to  the  average  novelist ;  he  is  elusive  and  protean 
and  evades  description.  Some  great  novelists, 
although  undoubtedly  once  boys  themselves, 
make  mere  caricatures  of  boys.  Little  Lord 
Fauntleroy   was   a   charming  creature  but  he 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     47 

was  not  a  boy.  D 'Israeli's  boys  are  all  old 
men ;  they  attain  three-score  before  they  are 
twenty.  Witness  the  grand  entrance  of  some 
of  these  unfeathered  ones  in  the  world  of  politics 
and  letters.  They  discourse  of  affairs  of  state 
before  they  have  achieved  the  big  manly  voice. 
If  you  should  chance  to  meet  one  of  these  very 
old  young  gentlemen  at  Rodwell  Regis'  or  Dr. 
Birch's  school  you  would  no  more  think  of 
giving  him  a  tip  to  buy  sweets  with,  than  you 
would  of  tipping  Mr.  Gladstone.  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich  and  Mark  Twain  have  told  us 
of  some  real  boys,  and  William  Allen  White  is 
now  engaged,  as  I  understand,  in  the  restoration 
of  the  Boy  to  fiction. 

In  behalf  of  these  gentlemen  and  all  men 
who  have  been  boys  I  protest  against  expurgated 
editions  of  boyhood.  Like  Cromwell  with  the 
portrait  painter,  I  want  to  have  the  picture 
show  all  the  blemishes.  You  will  have  to  make 
long  search  in  Dickens  before  you  will  find  a 
real  boy.  He  has  some  impossible  creations 
that  are  called  boys,  but  as  a  rule  they  are 
grotesque  freaks,  mere  caricatures,  made  up  by 
selecting  and  emphazing  some  one  boyish  trait. 
This  gives  a  mere  fragment  of  a  boy.  The  Fat 
Boy   for   instance,    simply    eats    and    sleeps — 


48        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

admittedly  too  meager  an  endowment  of  boyish 
talent. 

The  Dickens  Boy  is  given  to  the  most 
impossible  grown-up  language.  Here  is  a 
sample  from  Mrs.  Lirriper's  lodgings.  The 
boy  says,  in  a  burst  of  childish  confidence  to 
the  old  lady  who  has  adopted  him  : 

And  now  dear  Gran,  let  me  kneel  down 
here,   where  I  have   been   used   to   say    my 
prayers,   and  let  me  fold  my  face  for  just  a 
minute  in  your  g-own,  and  let  me  cry,  for  you 
have   been    more  than    mother,    more    than 
father,  more  than  sisters,  friends  to  me. 
This  is  exactly  the  way  the  forty-year-old 
boy  talks  in  a  popular  play.     But  no  real  ten- 
year-old  ever  talked   like   that.     Oliver   Twist 
was  not  much  of  a  boy.     The  nearest  he  came 
to  it,  was  when  he  asked  for  more,   and  when 
he  blacked  Noah   Claypole's   eye.     But    these 
events  seemed  in  the  nature  of  accidents  and 
not  indicative  of  any  settled  boyish  habit. 

Thackeray  has  no  counterfeit  boys.  He 
never  got  over  being  a  boy  himself  and  so  he 
knew  boys.  He  does  not  have  them  continually 
at  stage  business.  They  fight  and  fag  each 
other  and  are  flogged  religiously  and  unavail- 
ingly;  they  fill  up  on  hardbake  and  raspberry 


i 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     49 

tart,  they  run  in  debt  for  goodies,  and  dote  on 
hampers  from  home,  and  hate  books  and  love 
fun.  Clive  goes  to  Aunt  Honey  man's  and  she 
stuffs  him  with  sweets  as  is  the  manner  of  aunts 
the  world  over.  Sad  is  the  childhood  that  does 
not  have  such  an  aunt.  I  vow  I  would  rather 
have  vseen  the  fight  between  Champion  Major 
the  First  Cock  of  Doctor  Birch's  School,  and 
the  Tutbury  Pet,  or  the  one  between  Cuff  and 
Dobbin,  than  the  combat  between  the  late 
Messrs.  Fitzsimmons  and  Corbett. 

But  Thackeray  is  most  happy  with  his 
boys  in  the  salad  time,  between  hay  and  grass, 
when  the  childish  treble  changes  to  a  more 
virile  note.  Few  elders  understand  a  boy  at 
this  time,  nor  does  he  understand  himself.  If 
you  choose  to  laugh  at  the  many  nebulous 
aspirations,  hopes  and  ambitions  that  come  to 
him,  then  you  are  laughing  over  the  grave  of 
your  own  youth  where  lies  all  that  was  best  in 
you.  Make  your  mirth  kindly,  for  so  you  toiled, 
and  sorrowed  and  played  up  the  slope  of  man- 
hood. The  silly  hours,  the  follies  in  love,  the 
wanton  freaks  and  callow  vices,  the  fitful  starts 
that  mark  the  changing  mind,  are  all  pictures 
of  your  own  youth.  You  have  turned  them  to 
the  wall  and  forgotten  them,  or  wish  you  could 


50        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

forget  them.  Thackeray  has  dealt  kindly  with 
this  world  of  hobbledehoyhood.  He  has  peopled 
it  with  Arthur  Pendennis,  Phillip,  Clive,  the 
Virginians  and  many  more  of  unripe  wits.  He 
is  youth's  kindliest,  most  generous  mentor. 
'Tis  sometimes  one  whether  this  boy-man  is 
laughing  or  crying  over  this  dreamland  of  youth. 

It  was  as  if  he  had  the  same  opinion  as 
Dr.  Busby,  who  was  asked  how  he  contrived 
to  keep  all  his  preferments,  and  the  head- 
mastership  of  Westminster  School,  through 
the  turbulent  times  of  Charles  I,  Cromwell, 
and  Charles  H;  He  replied:  "The  fathers 
govern  the  nation;  the  mothers  govern  the 
fathers;  the  boys  govern  the  mothers;  and  I 
govern  the  boys." 

He  could  live  over  again  that  many-sided 
boyhood  with  its  selfishness  and  generosity,  its 
cruelty  and  humanity,  its  justice  and  injustice, 
its  queer,  strange,  code  of  established  laws  and 
customs.  Always  a  boy  at  heart,  he  could 
easily  turn  back  to  the  old  days  of  smiles  and 
tears,  of  feasting  and  fighting,  of  loosely 
mingled  work  and  play,  and  feel  again  the 
thrill  of  those  early  griefs  and  joys,  and  that 
first  fond  love  for  many  companions  whom  the 
dust  has  long  covered. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     51 

It  was  in  child-hearted  mood  that  he  wrote 
the  poem  where  are  these  lines : 
I'd  say  we  suffer  and  we  strive 

Not  less  or  more  as  men  than  boys; 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five, 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys. 
And  if  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 
Pray  heaven  that  early  love  and  truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 
The  Thackeray  Woman  is  a  delicate 
subject — a  complex  creature,  and  not  to  be 
roughly  classified.  Our  author  has  been  widely 
accused  of  making  his  women  either  fools  or 
knaves,  and  of  disparaging  the  sex  to  the  point 
of  slander.  This  criticism  is  really  based  on 
supersensitive  gallantry.  In  fact,  Thackeray 
treated  the  sexes  impartially,  and  dealt  out 
stripes  and  favour  with  an  equal  hand.  He  did 
not  create  any  lofty  and  flawless  women, 
but  neither  did  he  create  any  men  of  this 
character. 

Becky  Sharp,  The  Old  Campaigner,  and 
the  fair,  false  Beatrix  and  many  other  selfish, 
nagging,  toadying,  respectable  and  semi- 
respectable  women  that  he  has  painted  are  in 
his  Rogues  Gallery,  side  by  side  with  George 


52        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

Osborne,  the  brainless  cad,  the  Marquis  of 
Steyne,  and  Barnes  Newcome. 

We  are  not  unmindful  that  Zenobia 
Packer,  who  belongs  to  no  one  knows  how 
many  clubs,  and  is  president  of  the  Woman's 
Emancipation  League,  and  who  aims  a  rapid 
fire  of  treatises  and  addresses  at  the  Tyrant, 
Man,  and  is  high  chum  with  Lady  Summersault, 
the  English  head  of  the  Movement  for  Purity 
and  Reform,  thinks  that  Amelia  Sedley  was  a 
little  fool,  and  that  all  of  the  Thackeray  women 
of  gentle  mould  who  prayed  among  their 
children,  and  clung  fiercely  to  their  household 
deities,  and  never  cared  whether  they  had  any 
rights  or  not,  were  poor  puling  weak-spirited 
creatures,  who  would  be  entirely  out  of  date 
now.  Go  thy  way,  Zenobia,  to  thy  clubs  and 
thy  culture,  and  thy  meat  for  the  strong- 
minded  ;  pace  the  platform  with  mannish  strides; 
harangue  obdurate  Man  until  he  cries  for 
quarter,  and  hunt  the  bubble  Notoriety  from 
convention  to  convention. 

TyrantMan  would  return  yourcompliments 
with  interest  if  he  dared.  And  you,  Hysterical 
One  who  spleen  on  marriage  service  lest  it  have 
occult  power  to  subjugate  you,  and  who  analyze 
and  re-analyze  all  your  emotions  and   feelings 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     53 

before  you  use  them,  and  hold  high  prate  and 
debate  over  deum  and  teum^  follow  your 
labyrinth  and  let  petty  Discontent  gnaw  you, 
but  leave  healthy  humanity  to  its  worship  of 
old-fashioned  idols. 

If  to  be  gentle,  and  loving,  and  kindly,  and 
unselfish;  to  be  ignorant  of  most  of  the 
wickedness  of  the  world,  to  believe  in  and  trust 
and  idealize  a  faulty,  human,  son  or  brother  or 
husband,  and  to  forgive  him  seventy  times 
seven,  and  to  pour  unmeasured  love  upon  him 
without  pausing  to  see  v;hether  it  is  all 
measured  back  or  not ;  to  be  generous  and 
charitable  to  all  erring  souls,  and  to  hate  all 
wickedness,  stamps  a  woman  as  a  poor  weak- 
spirited  creature,  then  may  heaven  send  us 
more  of  such  women  to  bless  and  cheer  the 
world  and  make  it  better.  Amelia,  it  is  true 
loved  a  cad,  but  evil  tongues  were  hushed  in 
her  presence.  The  Little  Sister  artlessly 
dropped  her  h's,  and  said  "feller,  "  and  was 
not  at  all  strong-minded,  but  in  silence  she  let 
her  own  good  name  suffer  a  deadly  wound  in 
order  that  she  might  save  the  boy,  not  her  own, 
from  an  inheritance  of  shame. 

Some  apology  is  due  for  approaching  the 
everlasting     parallel     between      Dickens     and 


54        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

Thackeray ;  but  this  habit  of  comparison  has 
become  a  fixed  and  ineradicable  trait  in  all  of 
their  admirers.  The  question  of  superiority 
between  them  is  probably  as  unworthy  of  serious 
contention  as  are  some  of  those  favourites  of 
the  Ethiopian  debating  societies. 

Dickens  will  undoubtedly  always  be  more 
popular  with  the  masses.  His  humour,  his 
mannerisms,  his  bent  for  fine  writing,  his  long 
drawn  pathos,  his  unwearying  play  of  sorrow 
and  emotion  and  his  conventional  sermonizing 
on  the  moralities,  are  more  taking  than  the 
quick,  sweeping  strokes  of  Thackeray. 

Thackeray  disdained  pretentious  writing 
and  all  overdrawn,  overworn  scenes.  He  has 
no  Solitary  Horsemen,  no  prefatory  tales  of 
wind  and  storm,  no  stale  theatrical  tricks  or 
devices,  or  tawdry  stage  properties.  He  leaves 
all  the  gorgeous  imagery  of  sky  and  storm  and 
landscape  to  other  limners.  Life's  great  joys 
and  sorrows  are  not  made  w^earying  with  long 
speech  or  ornate  funeral  rhetoric.  Before  a 
death  bed,  he  is  not  fike  Dame  Quickly  or  some 
garrulous  caretaker  of  the  chamber,  chattering 
and  gossipping  of  the  last  hour;  he  but 
reverently  draws  the  curtain  back  for  a 
momentary  view  and  then  closes  it  again.     He 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     55 

does  not  prologue  his  art  and  bid  you  prepare 
to  laugh  or  weep  before  the  occasion. 

Yet  he  excels  Dickens,  and,  indeed,  most 
others,  as  a  master  of  style.  The  pedant,  the 
mere  grammarian,  or  linguistic  martinet,  prunes 
and  pares  our  mother-tongue  into  bashful 
regularity — into  ordered  line  and  phrase.  It  is 
then  as  the  trees  in  the  ground  of  some 
parvenue  gardener,  trimmed  into  grotesque 
architecture  and  deformity,  shorn  of  their  grace 
and  beauty,  and  mere  caricatures  of  the  great 
forests. 

Thackeray  will  have  none  of  this;  he 
touches  the  barren  rock  of  dictionary  lore,  and 
the  living  words  gush  forth. 

Some  of  the  best  examples  of  his  style  are 
found  in  the  introduction  of  Major  Pendennis 
reading  his  morning  mail,  in  the  perusal  of 
which  you  get  several  life- histories;  in  the  scene 
where  Colonel  Esmond  discards  the  young- 
pretender,  and  in  Colonel  Newcome's  last  hour. 
In  these  are  shown  the  marvel  and  power  of  a 
few  simple  words. 

Like  music  answering  music  is  a  younger 
author's  affectionate  tribute  to  the  great 
master. 

In  his  Letters  to  Dead  Authors,  Lang 


56        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

says  of  Thackeray's  style,  using  for  his  text 
Thackeray's  own  words,  "Forever  echoing  in 
the  heart  and  present  in  the  memory:" 

Who  has  heard  these  tones,  who  does  not 
hear  them  as  he  turns  over  your  books  that, 
for  so  many  years  have  been  companions  and 
comforters?  We  have  been  young-  and  old, 
we  have  been  sad  and  merry  with  you,  we 
have  listened  to  the  midnight  chimes  with 
Pen  and  Warring-ton,  have  stood  with  you 
beside  the  death-bed,  have  mourned  at  that 
yet  more  awful  funeral  of  lost  love,  and  with 
you  have  prayed  in  the  inmost  chapel  sacred 
to  our  old  and  immortal  affections,  a  leal 
soiivenirl  And  whenever  you  speak  for  your- 
self, and  speak  in  earnest,  how  magical,  how 
rare,  how  lonely  in  our  literature  is  the 
beauty  of  your  sentences !  "I  cannot  express 
the  charm  of  them,"  so  you  wrote  of  Georg-e 
Sand;  so  we  may  write  of  you.  They  seem 
to  me  like  the  sound  of  country  bells,  pro- 
voking- I  don't  know  what  vein  of  music  and 
meditation,  and  falling-  sweetly  and  sadly  on 
the  ear.  Surely  that  style,  so  fresh,  so  rich,  so 
full  of  surprises — that  style  which  stamps  as 
classical  your  frag-ments  of  slang-,  and  per- 
petually astonishes  and  delights — would  alone 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     57 

g-ive  immortality  to  an  author,  even  had  he 
little  to  say. 

But  you  with  your  whole  wide  world  of 

fops  and  fools,  of  good  women  and  brave  men, 

of  honestabsurditiesand  cheery  adventurers; 

you  who  created  the  Steynes  and  Newcomes, 

the  Beckys  and  Blanches,  Captain   Costig-an 

and  F.  B.  and  the  Chevalier  Strong— all  that 

host    of     friends     imperishable — you    must 

survive  with  Shakespeare  and  Cervantes  in 

the  memory  and  affections  of  men. 

When    Thackeray   grows  weary  of  snobs 

and    their    ways,    and    of    the    meanness    and 

baseness  of  life,  he  has  places  of  refuge,  where 

no  evil  comes,  but  only  charity  and  worth  and 

manliness.     These   are   his  temples,   and  some 

deity  of  truth  is  worshipped  in  each.     You  can 

weep  and  pray  with  him  here,  and  walk  forth 

with    new-opened    heart.     I  liken   him  to   the 

Ancient  Mariner,   homeward  bound  after  that 

voyage  of  evil  sights,  who  crosses  the  harbour 

bar,  and  sees  the  light-house  top,  and  the  kirk 

and  feels  the  familiar  homely  flush  of  life  in  his 

own  country  once  more.     Straightway  his  spirit 

falls  prone  and  he  learns  the  message  he  is  to 

take  to  all,   that  he  prayeth  best,  who  loveth 

best,  all  things  both  great  and  small.     So,  when 


58        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

Thackeray  comes  to  the  lives  of  good  men  and 
women,  he  casts  off  his  hardihood  and  cynicism, 
and  sees  only  the  things  that  he  loves  best.  If 
he  created  Becky  Sharp,  and  George  Osborne 
and  Barnes  Newcome,  he  also  gave  us  The 
Little  Sister,  and  Amelia  Sedley,  and  dear  old 
Dobbin. 

The  wickedness  and  baseness  is  over- 
matched by  Colonel  Newcome,  and  where  in  all 
literature  is  there  so  simple,  kindly,  manly  and 
chivalrous  a  soul.  Almost  the  first  we  see  of 
him  is  in  the  coffee-room  when  he  arises  from 
his  seat,  trembling  with  indignation  and  stalks 
out  with  little  Clive,  because  one  of  the  baccha- 
nalians commences  to  sing  a  ribald  song.  His 
life  is  all  one  prayer  for  his  boy.  When  the  evil 
days  came  and  the  lash  of  The  Old  Campaigner 
fell  upon  him,  he  bow^ed  his  shoulders  in  charity 
and  patience.  In  the  real  world  it  might  be 
hard  to  find  men  like  him,  but  unquestionably 
there  are  women  like  her.  We  last  see  him  in 
Gray  Friars,  one  of  the  Poor  Brethren,  accepting 
with  blended  pride  and  humility  the  dole  of 
charity  for  a  little  time  until  death  comes. 
With  Clive,  and  Ethel,  and  Madame  de  Florae, 
w^hom  he  had  loved  and  lost  forty  years  before, 
clinging  to  his  hands,  he  heard  the  evening  bell 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     59 

strike  as  his  summons  came,  and    raising  his 
head  called   '^ Adsum^  "  the  word  he  answered 
with  when  names  were  called  at  school.   Colonel 
Newcome    alone  redeems  Thackeray  from    the 
charge  of  thinking  too  meanly  of  human-kind. 
His  own  careless  lines  best  close  the  page: 
The  play  is  done;  the  curtain  drops, 
Slow  falling-  to  the  prompter's  bell; 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops. 

And  looks  around  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  work  and  task; 

And  when  he's  laughed  and  said  his  say 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that's  anything  but  gay. 

*  *  * 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part. 
And  bow  before  the  Awful  Will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses,  or  who  wins  the  prize? 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can; 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise. 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 


D  E  G  E  N  ER  A  T  I  O  N 

IN  his  Degeneration,  Dr.  Nordau  comes 
crashing  into  literature  like  the  traditionary 
bull  into  a  china  shop.  When  that  rude 
invasion  occurred,  according  to  some  accounts, 
the  proprietor  of  the  shop,  after  the  intruder 
had  been  led  away  to  the  shambles,  took  an 
inventory  of  the  ruins.  He  found  great  wreckage 
of  silly  gingerbread-ware,  of  costly  stucco,  and 
antique  vases,  priceless  because  they  were  old ; 
he  found  broken  specimens  made  famous  and 
notable  because  some  mad  fancier  had  started 
the  fashion  of  doting  on  them,  and  many  other 
sheep-like  madmen  had  chased  after  their 
leaders.  Some  of  these  fragments  were  ground 
into  dust  and  past  all  patching;  but  others  he 
noted  he  could  stick  together  and  hide  their 
wounds,  or,  better  still,  could  parade  them 
maimed  and  battered  in  proof  of  their  great 
antiquity.  To  maintain  my  figure  properly  I 
choose  to  believe  that  this  shopkeeper  was  a 
collector,    a   connoisseur^   a   lover  of  rare   old 


DEGENERATION  61 

pottery  who  paid  fabulous  prices  for  such  as 
pleased  his  taste;  one  who  valued  many  of  the 
gems  of  his  collection,  not  because  they  were 
artistic,  but  because  they  were  hideous,  and 
other  pieces  because  no  one  else  had  them,  and 
still  others  because  some  Royal  Society  had  set 
its  approval  on  them.  I  shall  assume  that  he 
had  some  dingy  lies  purporting  to  come  from 
the  palaces  of  Pompeii,  or  the  tombs  of  Etrusca, 
that  really  hailed  from  the  shed  of  some  vile 
nineteenth  century  potter.  The  bull  must  have 
knocked  some  of  the  grimy  deceiving  glaze  from 
these  gauds  and  shown  them  for  what  they  were. 
Our  antiquarian  could  solace  himself  with  the 
thought  that  he  could  afford  to  lose  some  of 
his  wares;  could  patch  others  and  deceive  the 
public  with  the  fragments,  and  that  after  all, 
his  best  treasures  were  on  the  higher  shelves 
and  received  no  harm.  In  the  case  at  bar,  as 
the  lawyers  say,  we  Who  keep  the  literary  shop 
have  walked  about  since  Nordau  darkened  our 
doors,  picking  up  the  ruins  and  ruefully 
surveying  the  broken  idols. 

We  find  much  dull  clay  gilded  as  wedge- 
wood  and  rare  china;  we  find  antiquities  that 
were  made  yesterday  with  no  more  lies  to  tell; 
we    find    that    some    things   can    be    patched 


62        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

together;  and,  thankfully,  we  find  that 
some  priceless  treasures  were  placed  so  high 
that  this  raging  iconoclast  could  not  harm 
them.  Let  us,  then,  rejoice  over  our 
salvage.  As  for  Nordau,  he  has  been  led  away 
to  the  critic's  shambles,  there  to  await  the 
lethal  strokes  of  ten  thousand  daggers. 

The  vendetta  between  him  and  his  victims, 
and  victims'  victims  has  become  international. 
It  is  our  happiness  to  sit  around  in  the  pleasant 
amphitheatre  and  watch  the  killing,  moved 
only  by  the  love  of  truth.  Under  no  cir- 
cumstances let  us  turn  up  our  thumbs  for  the 
king's  mercy.  This  charge  of  one  man  upon 
an  army  will  be  one  of  the  famous  braveries  in 
literature.  He  faced  only  the  leaders  at  first, 
"the  prime  in  order  and  in  might,  "  but  behind 
these  come  the  inferior  orders,  and  then  the  ten 
thousand  thousand  disciples  of  the  Degenerates. 
This  rude  shock  did  not  even  spare  the  temple 
of  France  where  the  Forty  Immortals  are  safely 
housed  beyond  all  necessity  of  struggling  for 
fame.  It  is  vain  however  to  suppose  that  the 
common  business  of  establishing  cults  will  be 
lessened  much.  We  will  still  continue  to  give 
to  our  newest  Genius  assurance  of  fame  by 
naming   clubs   after   him,   and  disciplining  an 


DEGENERATION  (.3 

army  to  ring  his  perpetual  eulogy.  In  club 
circles  it  will  still  be  thought  blasphemous  that 
critics  like  Nordau  should  disturb  public 
worship  by  their  rude  and  fretful  speech.  We 
shall  spend  many  a  decade  hereafter  listening 
to  the  donkey  chorus,  and  watching  the  halo, 
which  Dullness  always  delights  to  place  around 
Dullness,  grow  and  fade. 

I  have  my  own  fee-grief  however.  After 
reading  Nordau,  I  bethought  me  of  those 
ancient  library  favourites — those  storehouses  of 
polite  letters — the  Poets'  Argosy;  Treasures 
of  Verse;  and  Sheaves  Gleaned  Frorn  the 
Great  Ocean  of  Literature.  I  fear  that 
I  have  been  harbouring  Degenerates  behind 
these  wooden  walls.  I  know  that  the  gentle- 
souled  compilers,  always  thoughtful  of  the 
manners  and  morals  of  their  patrons,  have 
already  expurgated  much,  yet  I  may  have  to 
follow  them  with  the  blue  pencil.  If  I  must,  I 
shall  even  tear  out  a  forbidden  leaf  here  and 
there.  If  an  intimate  friend  of  mine  is  arrested 
at  my  house  charged  with  a  heinous  crime, 
shall  I  go  off  to  goal  and  bail  him  out,  and 
provide  for  his  defense,  not  caring  for  my  own 
safety?  Or  will  it  be  more  prudent  for  me  to 
come   out    boldly    and    honestly   against    him ; 


64        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

frankly  admit  that  he  may  be  guilty,  and  that 
I  have  observed  suspicious  things  about  him 
for  a  long  time,  as  I  frequently  remarked  to  my 
other  friend,  Smith,  as  Smith  very  well  knows? 
Is  not  this  the  best  way  to  get  away  from  the 
ridicule  and  shame  of  the  matter,  especially  as 
I  remember  trying  to  make  many  people  believe 
that  my  friend  in  custody  was  a  worthy,  honest 
fellow?  How  can  I  clear  myself  of  the  suspicions 
arising  from  my  intimacy  with  the  criminal 
unless  I  repudiate  him  utterly?  If  I  have  had 
a  sneaking  fondness  for  Swinburne  and  Maeter- 
linck, now  that  Nordau  has  made  his  arrest,  is 
it  my  best  policy  to  attempt  a  rescue,  or,  shall 
I  abandon  them  to  their  fate ;  denounce  them 
in  an  airy  off-handed  way,  and  announce  that 
I  never  approved  of  them  and  am  glad  of  their 
exposure? 

Indeed,  Nordau  says  that  Degenerates  love 
a  Degenerate,  and  thus  I  may  become  classified 
as  a  Mattoid,  an  Egomaniac,  or  a  Grapho- 
maniac,  simply  because  of  the  company  I  have 
kept.  These  questions  as  to  what  faith  shall 
be  maintained  with  old  friends  are  matters  of 
casuistry  that  the  honourable  reader  will  settle 
for  himself. 

For    my    own    part,    I    think    that   if    an 


DEGENERATION  65 

author,  after  having  deceived  us  these  many 
years,  now  turns  out  under  a  new^  diagnosis  to 
be  a  Mattoid  or  other  monster,  he  Is  not  entitled 
to  much  consideration,  and  we  owe  it  to  our- 
selves to  look  out  for  ourselves.  The  dear 
ladles  who  have  wept  sentimentally  over  Ibsen's 
multifarious  sweet  follies;  the  loveless  ones  who 
have  'scaped  either  matrimony  or  its  happiness, 
and  who  find  comfort  In  Tolstoi  because  he 
preaches  that  marriage  is  not  only  a  failure  but 
a  desecration;  the  ardent  devotees  of  realism  who 
have  followed  in  Zola's  furrow  as  he  subsoiled 
dunghills;  the  many  youths  of  kindling  minds 
who  have  been  lured  by  the  gorgeous  colouring 
of  Swinburne  and  Rossetti,  as  the  savage  Is 
lured  by  a  red  blanket  and  glass  beads;  those 
who  love  the  dictionary  conglomerates  of 
Maeterlinck,  Baudelaire  and  Nietzsche — must 
endure  the  shock  of  seeing  their  deified  good 
masters  turned  Into  swine — into  Yahoos,  whom 
none  shall  reverence. 

Nordau  has  the  scientist's  rage  for  classify- 
ing the  unclassifiable.  To  the  layman  the  task 
seems  as  vain  as  that  of  the  phrenologists  who 
subdivide  the  human  skull  into  compartments, 
stocking  each  with  its  appropriate  tenant.  It 
is  urged  that  Nordau  pleads  his  cause  against 


66        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

the  Degenerates  with  too  much  vehemence;  but 
a  juror  need  not  assume  that  an  advocate  has 
a  bad  case,  because  he  argues  it  with 
exaggeration  and  energy.  This  new  science  of 
Degeneration  has  begotten  names  and  titles 
that  are  appalling  to  the  non-professional 
reader.  How  are  pupils  in  the  lower  forms  to 
know  what  Masochism,  Megalomania,  Neo- 
Catholicism,  Graphomania,  Anthropomor- 
phism, Zoomorphism,  Echolalia  and  many 
other  titles  of  strange  disease,  are?  The 
scholars  must  supply  literature  with  a  new 
index  for  its  maladies,  or  else  allow  us  to  lump 
them  off  under  the  head  of  Nervous  Prostration 
or  General  Debility. 

To  a  native  of  the  upper  Mississippi  Valley, 
this  baiting  and  harrying  of  the  Degenerates 
seems  like  a  visitation  of  righteous  wrath  only 
too  long  delayed.  In  places  where  literature 
has  an  established  service  and  a  common  law 
of  tradition  and  custom,  success  seems  generally 
to  follow  persistent  clacking  and  tickling.  You 
talk  up  my  new  poem  and  I  will  talk  up  your 
new  novel;  thus  pigmy  calls  to  pigmy,  and  a 
great  deal  of  noise  is  made  about  nothing.  If 
this  persistent  reciprocal  advertising  be  kept 
up  long  enough  the  Public  will  soon  come  to 


DEGENERATION  67 

think  we  are  both  great  men.  Would  you 
know  how  great  fame  is  built  up  out  of  nothing, 
read  Nordau's  account  of  the  making  of 
Maeterlink: 

This  pitiable  mental  cripple  veg-etated  for 
years  wholly  unnoticed  in  his  corner  of  Ghent 
without  the  Belgian  Symbolists,  who  outbid 
even  the  French,  according  him  the  slightest 
attention;  as  to  the  public  at  large,  no  one  had 
a  suspicion  of  his  existence.  Then  one  fine 
day  in  1890  his  writings  fell  accidently  into 
the  hands  of  the  French  novelist,  Octave 
Mirabeau.  He  read  them,  and  whether  he 
desired  to  make  fun  of  his  contemporaries  in 
grand  style,  or  whether  he  obeyed  some 
morbid  impulsion  is  not  known ;  it  is  sufficient 
to  say  that  he  published  in  Le  Figaro  an 
article  of  unheard  of  extravagance,  in  which 
he  represented  Maeterlinck  as  the  most 
brilliant,  sublime,  moving  poet  which  the  last 
three  hundred  years  had  produced,  and 
assigned  him  a  place  near— nay,  above 
Shakespeare.  And  then  the  world  witnessed 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary,  and  most 
convincing  examples  of  theforce  of  suggestion 
The  hundred  thousand  rich  and  cultivated 
readers   to   whom    Figai'o    addresses    itself 


68        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

immediately  took  up  the  views  which  Mirbeau 
had  imperiously  sug-g-ested  to  them.     They 
at  once  saw  Maeterlinck  with  Mirbeau's  eyes. 
They    found    in  him    all  the  beauties  which 
Mirbeau  asserted  that  he  perceived  in   him. 
Anderson's  fairy  tale  of  the  invisible  clothes 
of  the  emperor  repeated  itself  line  for  line. 
They    were   not  there,   but  the  whole  court 
saw  them.     Some  imagined  they  really  saw 
the  absent   state  robes;  the  others  did  not 
see  them,  but  rubbed  their  eyes  so  long  that 
they  at  least  doubted  whether  they  saw  them 
or   not;  others   again   could   not  impose    on 
themselves,    but    dared    not    contradict  the 
rest.     Thus     Maeterlinck    became    at    one 
stroke,   by   Mirbeau's  favour,  a  great  poet, 
and  a  poet  of  "the  future.  "  Mirbeau  had  also 
given  quotations  which  would  have  completely 
sufi&ced  for  a  reader  who  was  not  hysterical, 
not  given  over  irresistibly  to  suggestion,  to 
recognize'Maeterlinck  for  what  he  is,  namely, 
a  mentally  debilitated  plagiarist;  but  these 
very  quotations  wrung  cries  of  admiration 
from   the    Figaro   public,   for   Mirbeau   had 
pointed  them  out  as  beauties  of  the  highest 
rank,  and  every  one  knows   that  a  decided 
affirmation  is  sufficient  to  compel   hypnotic 


DEGENERATION  69 

patients  to  eat  raw  potatoes  as  orang-es  and 
to   believe   themselves   to    be    dog's  or  other 
quadrupeds. 
Nordau  gives  out  this  as  his  text : 

Deg-enerates  are  not  always  criminals, 
prostitutes,  anarchists,  and  pronounced 
lunatics;  they  are  often  authors  and  artists. 
These  however  manifest  the  same  mental 
characteristics,  and,  for  the  most  part,  the 
same  somatic  features  as  the  members  of  the 
above  anthropological  family. 
This  is  his  indictment  of  the  great  donkey- 
like public. 

But  g-rievous  is  the  fate  of  him  who  has 
the  audacity  to  characterize  aesthetic  fashions 
as  forms  of  mental  decay.  The  author  or 
artist  attacked  never  pardons  a  man  for 
recog-nizing-  in  him  the  lunatic  or  charlatan; 
the  subjectively  g-arrulous  critics  are  furious 
when  it  is  pointed  out  how  shallow  and 
incompetent  they  are,  or  how  cowardly  when 
swimming  with  the  stream ;  and  even  the 
public  is  ang-ered  when  forced  to  see  that  it 
has  been  running-  after  fools,  quack  dentists 
and  mountebanks  as  so  many  prophets.  Some 
among-  these  deg-enerates  in  literature,  music 
and  painting-  have  in  recent  years  come  into 


70        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

extraordinary  prominence,  and  are  revered 
by  numerous  admirers  as  creators  of  a  new 
art,  and  heralds  of  the  coming  centuries. 
He  defines  Degeneration  as  "a  morbid 
deviation  from  an  original  type.  "  He  says: 
The  society  which  surrounds  the 
degenerate  alwaj's  remains  strange  to  him. 
The  Englishman  is  conquered  by  an  absurd- 
it}"  accompanied  by  diagrams.  Ruskin  is  one 
of  the  most  turbid  and  fallacious  minds,  and 
one  of  the  most  powerful  masters  of  style  of 
the  present  century,  *  *  *  The  Pre- 
Raphffiliteswhogotalltheir  leading  principles 
from  Ruskin,  went  further.  They  misunder- 
stood his  misunderstandings.  He  had  simply 
said  that  defectiveness  in  form  can  be 
counterbalanced  by  devotion  and  noble 
feeling  in  the  artist.  The}',  however,  raised 
it  to  the  position  of  a  fundamental  principle, 
that  in  order  to  express  devotion  and  noble 
feeling,  the  artist  must  be  defective  in  form. 
*  *  *  If  any  human  activity  is  individualistic 
it  is  that  of  the  artist.  True  talent  is  always 
personal.  In  its  creations  it  reproduces  itself, 
its  own  views  and  feelings,  and  not  the 
articles  of  faith  learned  from  an  aesthetic 
apostle.     If  Goethe  had  never  written  a  line 


DEGENERATION  71 

of  verse,  he  would  all  the  same  have  remained 

a  man  of  the  world,  a  man  of  good  principles, 

a  fine  art  connoiseur,  a  judicious  collector,  a 

keen  observer  of  nature.     Lombroso,  a  very 

great  authority,   says  of  degenerates:     "If 

they  are    painters,    then   their   predominant 

attribute  will  be  the  color  sense;  they  will  be 

decorative.     If  they  are  poets   they   will  be 

rich  in  rhyme,  brilliant  in  style,  but  barren  of 

thought;  sometimes  they  will  be  decadents." 

In  this  connection  it  may  be  said  that  the 

curious  style  of  some  artists  of  this  generation, 

notably  Monet   and   his  school   bears  out  the 

above  statement.     Nordau  says  of  Monet: 

Thus    originate    the   violet   pictures  of 

Monet  and  his  school  which  spring  from  no 

actual  observable  aspect  of  nature,  but  from 

the  subjective  view  due  to  the  condition  of  the 

nerves.     When  the  entire  surface  of  walls  in 

salons  and  art  exhibitions  of  the  day  appears 

veiled      in      uniform      half-mourning,      this 

predilection  for  violet  is  simply  an  expression 

of  the  nervous  debility  of  the  painter. 

Of  our  ovs^n  decadents  only  Walt  Whitman 

is  taken;  perhaps  the  crop  is  too  small  and  too 

immature  to  merit  reaping.     This  belittlement 

of  those  who  are  spared  may  be  deserved,   and 


72        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

yet  if  Nordau  could  have  read  our  Tigerish 
Affection  Poetry,  our  Poetry  of  Cold  Soggy 
Dreams,  or  our  Small  Poetry  for  Big  Maga- 
zines, he  might  have  found  a  trace  at  least  of 
the  deadly  virus  of  degeneration.  We  do  not 
worship  overmuch  our  home-born  degenerates. 
Some  of  our  attempts  at  literature  are  puerile, 
imitative,  and  vacuous  enough,  but  it  is  the 
silly  madness  and  unreason  of  childhood  rather 
than  the  rancid  ripeness  and  putrescent 
maturity  of  old-world  degeneration.  You  can 
readily  distinguish  between  the  childish  prattle 
of  the  kindergarten,  and  the  awful  adult  babble 
and  clamour  of  the  madhouse. 

Our  small-and-early  literature  is  so  desicated 
and  unfattened  in  its  life,  that  it  cannot 
spoil;  there  is  nothing  in  it  for  decay  to  feed 
upon,  and  so  it  dies  without  the  grosser  tokens 
of  mortality.  The  diseases  of  degeneration 
must  draw  nutriment  from  something  having 
life  and  power,  even  though  it  be  of  a  degraded 
sort.  We  have  no  madmen  with  burning 
brains,  like  Tolstoi,  crying  in  our  wilderness; 
they  belong  to  an  older  civilization.  Our  erotic 
literature  has  a  brief  and  transitory  life;  it  is 
infected  with  a  thin,  washed-out,  enfeebled  and 
innocuous  depravity   that   is   impotent   to   do 


DEGENERATION  73 

harm  except  among  school  children.  Its  makers 
put  it  up  in  imitation  of  Zola,  Rossetti  and 
Swinburne,  who  are  as  eagles  to  these  midges. 
The  nympho-maniacal  young  women  who  write 
prose  and  verse  for  the  patient  American  public 
deserve  to  be  put  in  straight-jackets,  only  they 
are  not  worth  a  commission  de  luiiatico.  They 
try  to  fly  as  eagles  but  cannot  clear  the  stye 
where  they  seem  to  live. 

Nordau  digs  up  the  early  remains  of  the 
Pre-Raphselites  to  point  his  moral.  This 
Brotherhood  is  referred  to  as  an  instance  of  how^ 
men  of  real  talent  can  indulge  in  grotesque 
affectation.  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  Holman 
Hunt  and  Millais  formed  the  Pre-Raphselite 
Brotherhood  in  1848;  Collinson  and  Stephens, 
two  painters  and  Woolner,  the  sculptor,  joined 
later.  For  a  time  they  marked  all  their  work 
P.  R.  B.     Nordau  says  of  them  : 

In  course  of  time  the  Pre-Raphaelites 
laid  aside  many  of  their  early  extravagances. 
Millais  and  Holman  Hunt  no  longer  practice 
the  affectation  of  willfully  bad  drawing  and 
of  childish  babbling-  in  imitation  of  Giotto's 
language.  *  *  *  They  did  not  paint  sober 
visions  but  emotions.  They  therefore  intro- 
duced into  their  pictures  mysterous  allusions 


74        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

and  obscure  symbols  which  have  nothing-  to 
do  with  the  visible  reality. 
Nordau  defines  Pre-Raphaelitism  thus: 

It  is  true  that  the  Pre-Raphaslites  with 
both  brush  and  pen  betray  a  certain,  thoug-h 
by  no  means  exclusive  predilection  for  the 
Middle  Ages;  but  the  mediaevalism  of  their 
poems  and  paintings  is  not  historical  but 
mythical,  and  simply  denotes  something 
outside  time  and  space — a  time  of  dreams 
and  a  place  of  dreams,  where  all  unreal 
figures  and  actions  may  be  conveniently 
bestowed.  That  they  decorate  their  un- 
earthly world  with  some  features  which  may 
remotely  recall  mediaevalism;  that  it  is 
peopled  with  queens  and  knights,  noble 
damozels  with  coronets  on  their  golden  hair, 
and  pages  with  plumed  caps — these  may  be 
accounted  for  by  the  prototypes  which, 
perhaps  unconsciously,  hover  before  the  eyes 
of  the  Pre-Raphaslites. 

Rossetti  finally  becomes  a  man  of  letters, 
dominated  possibly  by  his  name.  William 
Morris  joins  the  Pre-Raphaelites,  and  I  am 
reluctantly  compelled  to  say  that  he  has,  on  one 
occasion  at  least,  stolen  something  besides  in- 
spiration from  the  "mournful Tuscan's  haunted 


DEGENERATION  75 

rhyme."  This  practice  of  conscripting  a 
blessed  damozel  out  of  the  Middle  Ages  to  do 
duty  in  poetry  is  common  with  Rossetti  and  his 
school.  Tennyson — a  healthy  poet,  teaches  us 
that  a  simple  maiden  in  her  flower,  is  worth  a 
hundred  blessed  damozels. 

In  Rossetti 's  poem  Troy  Zbzf/^^  the  refrain 
•'O  Troy  Town,"  and  "O  Troy's  down,"  and 
"Tall  Troy's  on  fire, "  is  tacked  on  as  the  alien 
and  unassisting  tail- piece  to  each  one  of  fourteen 
strophes.     Thus: 

Helen  knelt  at  Venus'  shrine, 

[O  Troy  Town !] 
Saying-,  "A  little  g-ift  is  mine, 
A  little  g-ift  for  a  heart's  desire. 
Hear  me  speak  and  make  me  a  sig"n! 
[O  Troy's  down. 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire!]" 
Nordau  says: 

He    is     ever     muttering-    as     he     g-oes, 
monotonously  as  in  a  litany,  the  mysterious 
invocations  to  Troy,  while  he  is  relating  the 
visit  to  the  temple  of  Venus  at  Sparta. 
Sollier'has  the  proposition  that : 

A  special  characteristic  found  in  literary 
mattoids,  and  also,  as  we  have  seen,  in  the 
insane,  is  that  of  repeating-  some  words  or 


76        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

phrases  hundreds  of  times  in  the  same  pag-e. 
His    twin    brother,    Swinburne,    is  called 
upon  for  bis  contribution  to  the  poetical  crazy- 
quilt  : 

We  were  ten  maidens  in  the  green  corn, 

Small  red  leaves  in  the  mill-water; 
Fairer  maidens  never  were  born. 

Apples  of  g-old  for  the  King's  daughter. 

We  were  ten  maidens  by  a  well-head, 
Small  white  birds  in  the  mill-water; 
Sweeter  maidens  never  were  wed, 

Rings  of  red  for  the  King's  daughter. 
This  mill- water  is  a  monotonous  receptacle 
for  almost  everything-  from  "small  white  birds, " 
to  "a  little  w^ind,  "  and  it  bears  its  variegated 
burdens  through  many  verses  to  the  end;  when 
the  final  grave  is  dug  for  the  star  daughter,  it 
is  still  on  duty.  In  the  last  verse  "running 
rain,"  is  cast  in  aqueous  tautology  into  the 
mill-water.  This  practice  of  putting  a  tether 
on  Fancy  "skyward  flying,"  and  bringing  her 
back  with  a  jerk  to  the  same  point  after  every 
flight  seems  unnecessarily  cruel  and  inharmon- 
ious. 

The  Belgian   poet,    Maurice   Maeterlinck, 
furnishes     rare     sport     for     this     hunter     of 


DEGENERATION  77 

Degenerates.     From    the    Serres   chaudes   of 

Maeterlinck  this  sample  is  given : 

O  hot-house  in  the  middle  of  the  woods. 
And  your  doors  ever  closed!  And  all  that  is 
under  your  dome!  And  under  my  soul  in 
your  analog"ies!  The  thoug-hts  of  a  princess 
who  is  hung-ry ;  the  tedium  of  a  sailor  in  the 
desert;  a  brass-band  under  the  windows  of 
incurables.  Go  into  the  warm  moist  corners ! 
One  mig-ht  say  'tis  a  woman  fainting-  on 
harvest-day.  In  the  courtyard  of  the  infirmary 
are  postilions;  in  the  distance  an  elk-hunter 
passes  by,  who  now  tends  the  sick.  Examine 
in  the  moonlig-ht!  [O,  nothing-  there  is  in  its 
place!]  One  might  say,  a  madwoman  before 
judg-es,  a  battle  ship  in  full  sail  on  a  canal, 
nig-ht-birds  on  lillies,  a  death-knell  towards 
noon  [down  there  under  those  bells],  ahalting- 
place  for  the  sick  in  the  meadows,  a  smell  of 
ether  on  a  sunny  day.  My  God  !  My  God! 
when  shall  we  have  rain  and  snow  and  wind 
in  the  hot-house? 
To  show  how  easy  this  is,  Nordau  writes 

a  parody  of  it  in  this  fashion : 

O  Flowers!  And  we  groan  so  heavily 
under  the  very  old  taxes!  An  hour-g-lass,  at 
which  the  dog  barks  in  May;  and  the  strange 


78       CRITICAL    CONFESSIONS 

envelope  of  the  negro  who  has  not  slept.  A 
grandmother  who  would  eat  oranges  and 
could  not  write  1  Sailors  in  a  ballroom,  but 
blue!  blue!  On  the  bridge  this  crocodile  and 
the  policeman  with  the  swollen  cheek  beckons 
silently!  O  two  soldiers  in  the  cowhouse, 
and  the  razor  is  notched  !  But  the  chief  prize 
they  have  not  drawn.  And  on  the  lamp  are 
ink  spots! 

Nordau  despairingly  asks:  "Why  parody 
Maeterlinck?  His  style  bears  no  parody,  for 
it  has  already  reached  the  extreme  limits  of 
idiocy.  Nor  is  it  quite  worthy  of  a  mentally 
sound  man  to  make  fun  of  a  poor  devil  of  an 
idiot." 

Zola  and  his  school  do  not  escape 
punishment. 

M.  Zola  boasts  of  his  method  of  work !  all 
his  books  "emanate  from  observation."  The 
truth  is  that  he  has  never  "observed;"  that 
he  has  never,  following- Goethe  "plunged  into 
the  full  tide  of  human  life,"  but  has  always 
remained  shut  up  in  a  world  of  paper,  and 
has  drawn  all  his  subjects  out  of  his  own 
brain,  all  his  "realistic"  details  from  news- 
papers and  books  read  uncritically.  *  *  * 
His  eyes  are  never  directed  towards  nature 


DEGENERATION  79 

or  humanity,  but  only  to  his  own  "Eg-o.  "  In 
order  that  the  borrowed  detail  should  remain 
faithful  to  reality,  it  must  preserve  its  rig-ht 
relation  to  the  whole  phenomenon,  and  this 
is  what  never  happens  with  M.  Zola.  To 
quote  only  two  examples:  in  Pot-Bouille, 
among-  the  inhabitants  of  a  single  house  in 
the  Rue  de  Choiseul,  he  brings  to  pass  in  the 
space  of  a  few  months  all  the  infamous  things 
he  has  learnt  in  the  course  of  thirty  years,  by 
reports  from  acquaintances,  by  cases  in 
courts  of  law,  and  various  facts  from  news- 
papers about  apparently  honourable  bour- 
geois families;  in  La  Terre,  all  the  vices 
imputed  to  the  French  peasantry  or  rustic 
people  in  general,  he  crams  into  the  character 
and  conduct  of  a  few  inhabitants  of  a  small 
village  in  Beauce ;  he  may  in  these  cases  have 
supported  every  detail  by  cuttings  from 
new'spapers,  or  jottings,  but  the  whole  is  not 
the  less  monstrously  and  ridiculously  untrue. 
I  allowed  myself  for  thirteen  years  to  be  led 
astray  by  his  swagger,  and  credulously 
accepted  his  novels  as  sociological  contribu- 
tions to  the  knowledge  of  French  life.  The 
family  whose  history  Zola  presents  to  us  in 
twenty    mighty   volumes  is  entirely  outside 


80        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

normal  daily  life,  and  has  no  necessary 
connection  whatever  with  France  and  the 
Second  Empire.  It  mig-ht  just  as  well  have 
lived  in  Patagonia  and  at  the  time  of  the 
Thirty  Years'  War. 

Nordau  says  that  the  history  of  one  family 
of  criminals  in  France  has  supplied  M.  Zola 
with  material  for  all  of  his  novels.  It  is 
comforting  to  know  that  the  human  beasts 
described  in  works  like  La  Terre  are  selected 
cases.  Thinking  that  they  were  samples  of  the 
French  people,  I  have  felt  like  giving  voice  to 
Byron's  adjuration,  slightly  paraphrased: 
Arise  ye  Teutons  and  glut  your  ire. 
A  land  peopled  with  Zola's  characters 
would  be  a  carcass  that  even  vultures  would 
disdain. 

Nordau  says  of  Friedrich  Nietzsche: 

As  in  Ibsen  ego-mania  has  found  its  poet, 
so  in  Nietzsche  it  has  found  its  philosopher. 
The  deification  of  filth  by  the  Parnassians 
with  ink,  paint  and  clay;  the  censing- among- 
the  diabolists  and  decadents  of  licentious- 
ness, disease  and  corruption;  the  glorification, 
by  Ibsen  of  the  person  who  "wills,  "  is  "free" 
and  "wholly  himself" — of  all  this  Nietzsche 
supplies  the   theory,  or,    something    which 


DEGENERATION  81 

proclaimsitself  as  such.  *  *  *  From  the 
first  to  the  last  page  of  Nietzsche's  writings 
the  careful  reader  seems  to  hear  a  madman, 
with  flashing  eyes,  wild  gestures,  and 
foaming  mouth,  spouting  forth  deafening 
bombast;  and  through  it  all,  now  breaking 
out  into  frenzied  laughter,  now  sputtering 
expressions  of  filthy  abuse,  and  invective, 
now  skipping  about  in  a  giddily  agile  dance, 
and  now  bursting  upon  the  auditors  with 
threatening  mien  and  clenched  fists. 
Nietzsche  evidently  had  the  habit  of  throwing 
on  paper  with  feverish  haste  all  that  passed 
through  his  head,  and  when  he  had  collected 
a  heap  of  these  snippings,  he  sent  them  to  the 
printer  and  there  was  a  book.  *  *  *  j^ 
remains  a  disgrace  to  the  German  intellectual 
life  of  the  present  age,  that  in  Germany  a 
pronounced  maniac  should  have  been 
regarded  as  a  philosopher  and  have  founded 
a  school.  In  proof  of  the  correctness  of  the 
foregoing  criticism  I  take  a  passage  from 
Zarathusti'a. 

"The  world  is  deep  and  deeper  than  the 
day  thinks  it.  Forbear!  forbear!  I  am  too 
pure  for  thee.  Disturb  me  not!  Has  not 
my  world  become  exactly  perfect?     My  flesh 


82        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

is  too  pure  for  thy  hands.  Forbear,  thou 
dull  doltish  and  obtuse  day!  Is  not  the 
midnig-ht  clearer?  The  purest  are  to  be 
lords  of  the  earth,  the  most  unknown,  the 
strongest,  the  souls  of  midnight  who  are 
clearer  and  deeper  than  each  day.  *  *  * 
My  sorrow,  my  happiness  are  deep  thou 
strange  day;  but  yet  I  am  not  God,  no  Hell 
of  God;  deep  is  their  woe.  God's  woe  is 
deeper,  thou  strange  World !  Grasp  at  God's 
woe,  not  at  me  1  What  am  I?  A  drunken 
sweet  lyre — a  lyre  of  midnight,  a  sing-ing- 
frog-  understood  by  none,  but  who  must 
speak  before  the  deaf,  O  hig-her  men!  For 
ye  understand  me  not!  Hence  1  Hence! 
O  Youth!"  etc. 

It  would  make  too  lengthy  a  review  to  do 
more  than  refer  to  what  Nordau  says  of  the 
other  French  degenerates.  Among  them,  is 
Verlaine,  who  was  in  prison  for  two  years  for  a 
hideous  crime;  with  this  preparation  he  comes 
forth  and  establishes  a  school  or  cult  in  litera- 
ture. Stephane  Mallarme  was  admired  as  a 
great  poet  in  certain  circles  in  France,  but  affected 
silence,  with  the  pretension  that  it  was  indeli- 
cate and  vulgar  to  expose  his  naked  soul  in 
print.     From  the  top  of  the  pedestal  where  his 


DEGENERATION  83 

worshippers    placed    him    he    stimulates    their 
adoration  by  speechless  posturing,  leaving  them 
to  read  without  the  aid  of  the  ink-well  the  great 
thoughts  which  they  credulously  attribute  to 
him.     With  these  comes  Moreas,  another  leader 
of  the  Symbolists.     Leaving  France,  we  fly  at 
higher  game  in  Tolstoi.     Nordau  says  of  him: 
He  has  become  in  the  last  few  years  one 
of  the  best  known,  and  apparently,  also,  one 
of  the  most  widely  read  authors  in  the  world. 
Every    one  of   his   words   awakens   an    echo 
among-  all  the  civilized  nations  on  the  globe. 
His  strong  influence  over  his  contemporaries 
is  unmistakable.     The  universal   success  of 
Tolstoi's  writings  is  undoubtedly  due  in  part 
to  his 'high  literary  gifts.     *      *      *     Tolstoi 
would   have    remained    unnoticed    like    any 
Knudson  of  the  seventeenth  century,  if  his 
extravagances  as  a  degenerate    mystic   had 
not     found     his     contemporaries     prepared 
for  their  reception.     The  wide-spread  hys- 
teria from  exhaustion  was  the  requisite  soil 
in    which   alone   Tolstoi   could   flourish.     In 
England   it  was   Tolstoi's    sexual    morality 
that  excited  the  g-reatest  interest,  for  in  that 
country  economic  reasons  condemn  a  formid- 
able  number  of  girls,    particularly    of   the    • 


84        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

educated  classes,  to  forego  marriage;  and 
from  a  theory  which  honored  chastity  as  the 
highest  dignity  and  noblest  human  destiny, 
and  branded  marriage  with  gloomy  wrath 
as  abominal  depravity,  these  poor  creatures 
would  naturally  derive  rich  consolation  for 
their  lonely,  empty  lives  and  their  cruel 
exclusion  from  the  possibility  of  fulfilling 
their  natural  calling.  The  Kreutzer  Sonata 
has,  therefore,  become  the  book  of  devotion 
of  all  the  spinsters  of  England  *  *  * 
Lombroso  instances  a  certain  Knudson,  a 
madman,  who  lived  in  Schleswig  about  1680 
and  asserted  that  there  was  neither  a  God 
nor  a  hell;  that  priests  and  judges  were 
useless  and  pernicious,  and  marriage  an 
immorality;  that  men  ceased  to  exist  after 
death;  that  every  one  must  be  guided  by  bis 
own  inward  insight,  etc.  Here  we  have  the 
principal  features  of  Tolstoi's  cosmology 
and  moral  philosophy.  Knudson  has,  how- 
ever, so  little  pointed  out  leading  the  way  to 
those  coming  after,  that  he  still  only  exists 
as  an  instructive  case  of  mental  aberation 
in  books  on  diseases  of  the  mind. 
Nordau's  work  would  be  incomplete  with- 
out an  exposition  of  Ibsenism.    He  says  of  Ibsen: 


DEGENERATION  85 

That  Hearik  Ibsen  is  a  poet  of  great 
verve  and  power  is  not  for  a  moment  to  be 
denied.  He  is  extraordinarily  emotive,  and 
has  the  gift  of  depicting-  in  an  exceptionally 
life-like  and  impressive  manner  that  which 
has  excited  his  feeling-s.  *  *  *  Similarly 
it  must  be  acknowledg-ed  that  Ibsen  has 
created  some  characters  possessing-  a  truth 
to  life  and  a  completeness  such  as  are  not  to 
be  met  with  in  any  poet  since  Shakespeare. 
Gina,  in  The  Wild  Diick^  is  one  of  the  most 
profound  creations  of  world-literature — 
almost  as  great  as  Sancho  Panza,  who 
inspired  it,  Ibsen  has  had  the  daring  to 
create  a  female  Sancho,  and  in  his  temerity 
has  come  very  near  to  Cervantes,  whom  no 
one  has  equalled.  If  Gina  is  not  quite  so 
overpowering  as  Sancho,  it  is  because  there 
is  a  wanting  in  her  his  contrast  to  Don 
Quixote. 

Through  many  pages  of  Nordau  Ibsen  is 
dissected  and  examined.  Ibsen's  childish  ig- 
norance of  the  simplest  facts  taught  by  modern 
science;  his  silly  expositions  and  illustrations  of 
the  effect  of  heredity;  his  habit  of  mounting 
little  hobbyhorses  that  have  already  been  ridden 
to  death  by  the  authors  of  the  Sunday-school 


86       CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

literature  of  a  generation  back;  the  artless 
discussions  carried  on  by  his  characters,  of 
delicate  and  complex  social  problems,  are  all 
given  by  Nordau  as  signs  of  degeneration. 

I  should  rather  say  that  these  things  were 
proofs  that  Ibsen  was  a  mere  dreamer,  lacking 
accuracy;  one  who  was  but  a  shallow  student 
of  facts  and  social  problems,  and  who  has  had 
but  slight  training  as  a  man  of  the  world  and 
of  affairs.  He  has  but  a  dry  and  tedious  closet- 
wisdom,  yet  it  is  sugar-coated  at  times  with  his 
rare  poetic  and  dramatic  gifts.  It  would  be  a 
far  deduction  to  say  that  these  faults  denoted 
degeneration.  They  rather  strongly  prove 
the  vaguely  nebulous  condition  of  thought, 
incident  to  one  in  his  non-age.  His  ideas  of 
sacrifice,  of  expiation  for  sin ;  his  doctrine  that 
men  and  women  must  live  out  their  lives,  which 
he  explains  to  mean  that  they  should  follow 
their  own  sensual  or  selfish  impulses  no  matter 
at  what  cost  or  shame  to  others;  his  open 
abandonment  of  all  these  theories  and  the 
advocacy  of  their  opposites  from  time  to  time 
as  fits  his  mood,  are  certainly  marks  of  mental 
and  moral  perversion.  If  he  have  a  sound 
lesson  on  the  necessity  of  right  living,  to-day, 
he  is  sure  to  contradict  it  on  some  other  day 


DEGENERATION  87 

with  guileless  and  shameless  inconsistency. 
His  career  is  like  that  of  the  Libyan  who  wished 
to  become  a  god.  With  this  purpose  he  caged  a 
large  number  of  parrots  and  taught  them  to 
say  "Apsethus,  the  Libyan  is  a  god."  Then 
he  set  them  loose  and  they  spread  all  over 
Lybia,  and  repeated  in  every  wood  what  he 
had  taught  them.  The  Libyans  not  knowing 
of  his  trick  were  astounded  and  finally  came  to 
regard  him  as  a  god.  Nordau  uses  this  story 
as  illustrative  of  Ibsen,  and  adds: 

In  imitation  of  the  ingenious  Apsethus, 
Ibsen  has  taug-ht  a  few  "comprehensives, " 
Brandes.  Eberhards,  Jjegers,  etc. — the 
words  "Ibsen  is  a  modern,"  "Ibsen  is  a  poet 
of  the  future,"  and  the  parrots  have 
spread  over  all  the  lands  and  are  chat- 
tering with  deafening  dinin  books  and 
papers,  "Ibsen  is  great!"  "Ibsen  is  a 
modern  spirit!"  and  imbeciles  among  the 
public  murmur  the  cry  after  them,  because 
they  hear  it  frequently  repeated,  and  because 
on  such  as  they,  every  word  uttered  with 
emphasis  and  assurance  makes  an  impression. 
No  enthronement  however  high  is  safe 
from  Nordau ;  he  invades  temples  that  a 
humbler  critic  may   not  enter  even  on  tiptoe. 


88       CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

He  confronts  the  mighty  Wagner  in  his  pride  of 
place  and  shows  the  plague-spots  in  his 
character.  I  copy  only  a  fragment  from  this 
arraignment: 

The  shameless  sensuality  which  prevails 
in  his  dramatic  poems  has  impressed  all  his 
critics.  Hanslick  speaks  of  the  "bestial 
sensuality"  in  Rheingold,  and  says  of 
Sieg-fried:  "The  feverish  accents  so  much 
beloved  by  Wag-ner,  of  an  insatiable 
sensuality,  blazing-  to  the  uttermost  limits — 
this  ardent  moaning,  sighing,  crying,  sinking 
to  the  ground,  move  us  with  repugnance. 
The  text  of  these  love-scenes  becomes  some- 
times in  its  exuberance,  sheer  nonsense." 
Compare  in  the  first  act  of  the  Walkure,  in 
the  scene  between  Siegmund  and  Sieglinde, 
the  following  stage  direction  :  "Hotly  inter- 
rupting;" "embraces  her  with  fiery  passion," 
"in  gentle  ecstacy;"  "she  hangs  enraptured 
upon  his  neck;"  "close  to  his  eyes;"  "beside 
himself;"  "in  the  highest  intoxication,  "  etc. 
At  the  conclusion,  it  is  said  "the  curtain  falls 
quickly, "  and  frivolous  critics  have  not  failed 
to  perpetrate  the  cheap  witticism,  "very 
necessary,  too. "  The  amorous  whinings, 
whimperings  and   ravings    of    Tristan   and 


DEGENERATION  89 

Isolde,  the  entire  second  act  of  Parsifal,  in 
the  scene  between  the  hero  and  the  flower- 
girls,  and  then  between  him  and  Kundry  in 
Kling-sor's  mag-ic-garden,  are  worthy  to  rank 
with  the  above  passages.  It  certainly 
redounds  to  the  high  honour  of  German  pubic 
morality,  that  Wagner's  operas  could  have 
been  publicly  performed  without  arousing 
the  greatest  scandal.  How  un  perverted 
must  wives  and  maidens  be  when  they  are 
in  a  stale  of  mind  to  witness  these  pieces 
without  blushing  crimson  and  sinking  into 
the  earth  for  shame!  How  innocent  must 
even  husbands  and  fathers  be  who  allow  their 
womankind  to  go  to  these  representations  of 
"lupanar"  incidents!  Evidently  the  German 
audiences  entertain  no  misgivings  concerning 
the  actions  and  attitudes  of  Wagnerian 
personages;  they  seem  to  have  no  suspicion 
of  the  emotions  by  which  they  are  excited, 
and  what  intention  their  words,  gestures  and 
acts  denote;  and  this  explains  the  peaceful 
artlessness  with  which  these  audiences  follow 
theatrical  scenes  during  which,  among  a  less 
childlike  public,  no  one  would  dare  to  lift  his 
eyes  to  his  neighbour  or  endure  his 
glance. 


90        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

This  new  science  of  degeneration  has 
enriched  our  vocabulary  with  odd  grotesque 
forms  of  speech,  but  lately  sprung  up  in  the 
madhouses,  dissecting  rooms  and  hospitals; 
the  doctors  have  been  plagiarized  and  their 
livery  stolen  for  the  service  of  literature.  So 
dressed  forth,  Nordau's  clinic  becomes  too 
physiological  for  the  Critics'  Corner  in  a 
ladies'  magazine,  even  if  in  that  locality  we  could 
endure  so  strong  an  antidote  to  the  gentle 
adjacent  gush.  The  critics  who  hover  as 
vultures  alike  over  the  mountain  peaks  of 
genius  and  the  dead  plains  of  mediocrity  will 
have  rare  feasting  on  what  Nordau  has  left ;  he 
has  certainly  run  the  game  to  earth  for  them. 

The  art  of  criticism  has  always  owed  much 
to  the  earlier  classics.  They  furnished  it 
inspiration,  names,  titles,  figures,  and  illustra- 
tions. One  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  no 
critical  discourse  would  have  been  thought 
worthy  a  place  in  letters  if  it  did  not  contain 
industrious  gleanings  from  mythology;  critics 
hunted  from  Rome  back  to  Troy  for  whips 
with  which  to  scourge  offenders  against  their 
laws.  Homer  was  the  most  constant  source  of 
supply;  now  his  verses  (if  I  may  use  a  bit  of 
jesting  vernacular, )  have  become  back-numbers. 


DEGENERATION  91 

I  detest  Smith's  absurd  book  of  essays;  If  I 
reviewed  it  in  the  style  of  the  last  century,  I 
would  call  him  a  modern  Theresites,  or  compare 
him  to  some  other  equally  unvalued  ancient;  or 
I  would  suggest  that  he  had  found  some  bog- 
hole  and  drank  from  it  under  the  mistake  that 
it  was  the  Pierian  Spring.  All  this  is  old  style, 
and  was  very  well  in  its  day. 

With  the  aid  of  this  new  science,  I  call 
Smith  a  Literary  Mattoid,  an  Egomaniac,  a 
Phraseomaniac,  or  some  other  of  the  hospital- 
coined  titles  and  epithets.  It  will  be  so  much 
more  puzzling  and  painful  for  Smith,  when  he 
shall  find  that  his  essays  are  not  damned  by 
the  dictionary,  and  that  in  order  to  know  what 
it  is  that  I  have  called  him,  he  must  consult  his 
medical  man.  A  more  serious  thought  that  may 
well  give  us  pause,  is,  what  effect  do  these  new 
discoveries  have  on  the  law  of  libel  and  slander? 
Is  the  term  Mattoid,  when  applied  to  an 
author,  actionable?  What  should  be  the  rule 
of  damages  for  an  author  who  has  been  called 
an  Egomaniac?  Is  the  term  Nymphomaniac 
calculated  to  excite  an  assault  and  breach  of 
the  peace,  and  therefore  indictable?  Some  of 
these  questions  will  unhappily  find  an  answer 


92        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

ill    court,    and    I    will    not   prejudice  the   final 
judgment  by  any  hasty  opinion. 

This  excursion  into  Darkest  Literature, 
has  all  the  fascinations  attending  new  discoveries 
in  lands  of  strange  beasts  and  birds  and  men, — 
*  *  *  whatever  title  please  thine  ear 
Whether  thou  choose  Cervantes'  serious  air 
Or  !aug-h  and  shake  in  Rabelais'  easy  chair. 
Quoting  Pope  is  a  reminder  that  degenera- 
tion has  not  yet  been  called  the  nineteenth 
century  Dunciad — an  omission  which  is,  I  fancy, 
entitled  to  some  commendation.  Yet  prompted 
now,  so  strong  is  the  habit  of  fashioning  the 
divine  parallel,  w-e  recur  to  that  earlier  Dunciad 
in  search  of  all  marks  of  likeness  or  difference. 
Pope,  probably  a  degenerate  himself,  hunted 
his  enemies  like  a  ferret  out  of  the  ratholes  of 
Grub  Street ;  yet  he  distils  his  poison  in  courtly 
numbers  and  fair-sounding  verse.  He  runs 
the  Dunciad  in  heroic  mold,  and  puts  Thersites 
mockingly  into  the  shining  armour  of  Achilles. 
He  compels  the  mongrel  mob  in  his  Kingdom  of 
Dullness  to  walk  in  god -like  struts  before  he 
jeeringly  despatches  them  to  the  shades.  A 
dunce  is  more  of  a  dunce  dressed  in  the 
rhetorical  frippery  of  old  gods  and  kings,  just 
as  the  ass  in  the  fable  who  puts  on  the  lion's 


DEGENERATION  93 

hide  thereby  becomes  more  of  an  ass.  Pope's 
heroic  rhyme  is  like  a  parade  of  gloriously 
equipped  warriors  sent  out  apparently  to 
honourable  battle,  only  finally  to  be  employed 
as  catchpoles  for  curbstone,  criminals.  The 
rhyming  garniture  of  the  Dunciad  with  its 
myriad  harmonies  has  some  obscurities  that 
somewhat  dim  the  wit  after  so  long  a  time. 
There  is  a  species  of  wit  indigenous  to  time  and 
place;  it  will  not  bear  transplanting,  and 
withers  a  little  in  a  strange  environment.  After 
nearly  two  centuries  have  passed,  we  lose  the 
point  of  much  of  this  venom-dripping  rhyme; 
the  near-by  audience  laughed  it  to  the  echo. 
We  cannot  bring  back  that  fretting,  fuming 
Bohemia  where  Pope  was  king.  One  must 
have  seen  the  fribbling  rout  of  vulgar  pretenders 
whom  Pope-  left  howling,  in  order  to  take  full 
pleasure  in  their  correction.  We  should  go 
back  to  Will's,  and  hear  the  daily  gossip  that 
ranged  from  the  street  to  the  chambers  of 
great  noblemen,  to  make  us  apt  in  the  study 
of  this  devilish  delicate  wit.  Who  can  interpret 
it  now,  or  pluck  the  full  meaning  of  these 
fleshless  jests  from  their  graveyard?  No  more 
can  we  tell  all  that  Rabelais  and  Swift  meant 
by  their  stupendous  satires. 


94       CRITICAL    CONFESSIONS 

As  Hamlet  in  sad  derision  picked  up  the 
skull  of  poor  Yorick,  so  do  we  take  up  the 
Dunciad.  It  was  a  thing  of  infinite  jest  once; 
but  now,  where  be  its  gibes?  its  gambles?  its 
flashes  of  merriment  that  were  wont  to  set  the 
table  on  a  roar?  All  are  gone  and  we  are 
sitting  gazing  at  a  stage-full  of  mere  skeletons 
of  jests  whose  appearance  once  shook  the 
galleries. 

Nordau  on  the  other  hand  has  constructed 
for  us  a  scientific  treatise — a  text  book ;  a  cold 
phlegmatic  analysis  that  will  be  understood  in 
distant  times,  and  without  the  aid  of  local 
history.  He  does  not  adorn  his  labour  with 
the  colouring  of  divine  fancy  as  the  ancients 
decked  victims  for  the  sacrifice.  He  does  not 
waste  strength  on  glowing  verse  and  cunningly 
turned  phrases;  he  has  no  place  for  these  in 
his  materia  tnedica.  He  assumes  a  sterner 
task,  and  stands,  knife  in  hand,  coolly  dissecting 
and  expounding — the  genius  of  the  lecture- 
room. 


JOHN    SMITH 

I  FIND  from  my  daily  that  the  Smith  family 
is  to  hold  a  reunion  near  Altoona  on 
August  19,  It  is  needless  to  say  that  this 
reunion  will  be  largely  attended.  Those  in 
charge  of  the  affair  have  issued  a  large  number 
of  invitations  to  members  of  the  family  in  all 
parts  of  the  world.  On  these  invitations 
appears  a  sort  of  a  family  tree,  being  a  state- 
ment of  the  fecundity  and  antiquity  of  the 
Smiths.  It  states  that  the  name  antedates  the 
building  of  King  Solomon's  Temple  by  forty 
years,  and  the  Christian  era  by  1855  years. 
There  will  doubtless  be  presented  at  this 
reunion,  a  book  of  Chronicles  of  the  Smith 
Family,  compiled  by  some  enthusiastic  Smith, 
with  veracious  accounts  of  how  knightly  de 
Smiths  won  honour  in  many  great  battles  from 
Leuctra  to  Agincourt.  Letters  are  to  be  read 
at  this  gathering  from  famous  absent  Smiths 
and    addresses    made    by    famous    attendant 

95 


9f^        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

Smiths.  "Invitations."  so  my  account  runs, 
"have  been  sent  to  the  Italian  Smithis,  the 
Spanish  Smithes,  the  German  Schmidts, 
the  French  Smeets,  the  Russian  Smithtowskis, 
the  Greek  Smikons,  and  the  Turkish  Seefs.  " 
I  cannot  find  from  this  legend  whether  the 
invitations  were  sent  to  the  Smythes,  and  the 
Smithes,  but  these  aristocrats  may  have  been 
omitted  from  this  felicitation,  by  the  plain 
Smiths,  who  constitute  the  majority  of  the 
clan.  Caste  is  a  dreadful  thing,  but  it  seems 
to  have  crept  like  an  alphabetical  serpent  into 
the  Smith  family  in  the  form  of  the  interpolated 
y  or  e.  To  those  afflicted  with  this  aristocratic 
addition,  I  would  say  that  the  greatest  member 
of  the  Smith  family  was  plain  Smith,  with  his 
name-plainness  still  further  accentuated  by  the 
Christian  name  of  John.  Not  to  wear  this 
matter  out; — I  mean  Captain  John  Smith,  who 
fouofht  robbers  in  EnHand  and  France,  and 
pirates  on  the  ^lediterranean,  who  did  great 
deeds  against  the  Turk,  cutting  off  the  heads 
of  three  Turkish  champions  before  the  walls  of 
Regall ;  who  bore  Turkish  and  Indian  captivity 
with  undaunted  soul,  and  found  in  the  thick 
darkness  of  that  captivity  a  glowing  romance 
of   love;     who    was    saved    from    death    by   an 


JOHN       SMITH  97 

Indian  girl,  and  who  performed  so  many 
prodigies  of  valour  as  to  pale  "what  resounds 
in  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son  begirt 
with  British  and  Armoric  knights."  The 
Knights  of  the  Table  Round  with  all  their 
fabled  prowess  taken  for  true,  could  not  show 
his  fellow.  He  was  the  peer  of  them  all,  the 
courtliest,  the  bravest  and  the  greatest  of  soul 
of  all  the  brave  gentlemen  adventurers  that 
England  sent  into  far  countries  three  hundred 
years  ago.  All  that  was  said  of  the  peerless 
Launcelot  could  be  said  of  our  captain: 

Thou  were  head  of  all  Christian  knig^hts; 
and  thou  were  the  courtiest  knight  that  ever 
bare  shield;  and  thou  were  the  truest  friend 
to  thy  lover  that  ever  bestrode  horse;  and 
thou  were  the  truest  lover  of  a  sinful  man 
that  ever  loved  woman;  and  thou  were  the 
kindest  man  that  ever  strake  with  sword; 
and  thou  were  the  g^oodliest  person  ever  came 
among-  press  of  knig-hts;  and  thou  were  the 
meekest  man  and  the  g-entlest  that  ever  ate 
in  hall  among"  ladies;  and  thou  were  the 
sternest  knig-ht  to  thjj^  mortal  foe  that  ever 
put  spear  in  rest. 

Hero  worship  may  run  an  unchecked  course 
with  this  great-hearted  man,  for  all  about  him 


98        CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

seems  to  have  been  fine  and  worthy.  The 
chance  which  selects  parents  for  great  men  gave 
hhn  those  b}^  the  name  of  Smith  as  if  in  derision 
of  the  paltry  birthright  of  a  name.  His  parents 
followed  this  commonplace,  in  an  age  when 
there  were  plenty  of  Mortimers  and  Percys  by 
giving  their  eaglet  the  name  of  John.  It  was 
later  Smiths  who  have  been  tempted  from  the 
pathway  of  plain  and  unromatic  orthoepy  to 
insert  the  extra  vowel.  But  our  Smith  could 
afford  to  wear  his  name  plain,  as  a  prince  can 
afford  to  wear  plain  clothes. 

He  was  born  of  good  family  in  Willoughby, 
Lincolnshire,  in  1579.  Lord  Bacon,  then  a 
young  man  of  nineteen,  was  studying  law  at 
one  of  the  Inns  of  Court.  One  Sir  Thomas 
Coke  was  in  a  large  practice  before  the  courts 
at  Westminster;  Queen  Elizabeth  was  in  the 
midst  of  her  long  and  glorious  reign ;  and  there 
was  much  fighting  and  blood-letting  going  on 
all  over  the  globe.  Spain  was  wasting  the 
Netherlands  with  fire  and  sword.  The  Turks 
were  in  continual  war  with  the  nations  of 
southern  and  western  Europe.  Eight  years 
before  Smith's  birth  the  great  battle  of  Lepanto 
was  fought  between  the  Turks  and  the 
Spanish,  Italians,   and  Venetians  under  Duke 


JOHN       SMITH  99 

John  of  Austria.  Cervantes  served  as  a 
common  soldier  in  this  battle  under  the  banner 
of  Spain.  It  shattered  the  sea-power  of  the 
Turks;  but  on  land  they  continued  to  terrorize 
•Europe  until  John  Sobeski  turned  them  back 
before  the  walls  of  Vienna  one  hundred  years 
later.  It  was  in  this  same  year  of  1579  that 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  and  his  half-brother,  Sir 
Humphrey,  sailed  for  America  on  a  voyage  of 
discovery  under  a  patent  from  the  queen,  giving 
them  the  right  "to  discover  and  take  possession 
of  such  remote,  heathen,  and  barbarous  lands 
as  were  not  actually  possessed  by  any 
Christians  or  inhabited  by  any  Christian 
people.  "  Rome  was  at  open  war  with  England, 
and  Pope  Gregory  issued  his  famous  bull 
against  the  heretic  nation.  As  for  Spain  and 
France,  war  was  chronic  between  them  and 
England.  Spain  was  then  a  mighty  power. 
She  held  sway  over  a  portion  of  Italy  and  over 
the  Low  Countries.  Her  generals  were  able 
and  ruthless.  She  had  plundered  the  New 
World  of  countless  treasure  in  gold  and  silver, 
and  scores  of  her  galleons  were  engaged  in 
bringing  the  spoil  home.  A  papal  decree  gave 
the  New  World  to  Spain,  but  Englishmen  were 
hurrying  to  dispute  this  claim.     It  was  in  1580 


100      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

that  Drake  dropped  anchor  in  Plymouth 
harbour,  having  completed  the  circuit  of  the 
globe,  bringing  back  with  him  half  a  million 
of  Spanish  treasure.  Queen  Elizabeth  honoured 
.the  great  freebooter  with  knighthood,  and 
wore  some  of  the  jewels  he  had  taken  from  the 
Spaniard  in  her  crown.  This  was  one  of  the 
causes  that  led  Philip  to  send  the  great  Armada 
against  England,  a  few  years  later.  By  the 
queen's  command  Drake  again  despoiled  the 
Spanish  cities  in  the  New  World.  In  these 
stirring  times  young  Smith  grew  up.  The 
tales  of  Drake's  adventures,  and  of  the  struggle 
in  the'  Netherlands,  and  of  the  Armada  with 
its  wreck  of  ships  strewn  along  the  Scottish 
coast,  must  have  inflamed  his  youthful  imagina- 
tion, for  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  he  sold  his 
books  and  satchel  and  started  to  run  away  to 
sea.  His  father's  death,  however,  kept  him 
at  home  for  a  time,  and  his  guardians,  solid 
business  men,  w^ould  have  none  of  youthful  folly 
and  so  apprenticed  him  to  a  merchant  at  Lynn. 
This  merchant  tyrannically  refused  to  allow  his 
apprentice  to  go  to  sea,  and  so  Smith  went 
without  leave  to  France  with  a  son  of  Lord 
Willoughby.  From  there  he  went  to  the 
Netherlands  where  there  was  good  fighting  and 


JOHN       SMITH  101 

engaged  with  the  Spaniards  for  three  or  four 
years,  under  an  Englishman,  one  Captain 
Druxbury,  who  was  in  the  service  of  Prince 
Maurice.  He  finally  sailed  for  Scotland,  was 
shipwrecked  on  the  voyage,  but  escaped  vv'ithout 
harm,  and  came  again  to  Willoughby,  but  not 
to  engage  in  the  arts  of  peace.  He  turned 
hermit.     To  use  his  narrative: 

Where,  within  a  short  time,  being-  glutted 
with  too  much  company,  wherein  he  took 
small  delight;  he  retired  himselfe  into  a 
little  woodie  pasture,  a  good  way  from  an}' 
towne,  environed  with  many  hundred  Acres 
of  other  woods.  Here  by  a  faire  brook  he 
built  a  Pavilliou  of  boug-hes,  where  only  in 
his  cloaths  he  lay.  His  studie  was  Machiavill's 
Art  of  Warre,  and  Marcus  Aurelius;  his 
food  was  thought  to  be  more  of  venison  than 
anything  else;  what  he  wanted  his  man 
brought  him.  The  countre}?^  wondering  at 
such  an  Hermite  *  *  *  Long  these  pleasures 
could  not  content  him,  but  he  returned  againe 
to  the  Low-Countreyes. 

This  effort  not  to  commit  himself  directly 
to  the  venison,  seems  to  have  been  out  of 
delicate  respect  for  the  game  laws  which  were 
then    hanging    matter.     Hence  the  expression 


102      CRITICAL    CONFESSIONS 

"His  food  was  thought  to  be  more  of 
venison, — "  as  if  he  was  simply  giving  the 
neighbourhood  rumour,  rather  than  admitting 
a  fact  against  himself.  In  going  into  the  Low 
Countries,  his  plan  was  to  hunt  up  the  Turks 
and  fight  with  them  as  soon  as  possible.  He 
thought  himself  fitted  for  this  warfare  for  he 
says  of  his  acquirements: 

Thus  when  France  and  the  Netherlands 

had  taug-ht  him  to  ride  a  Horse  and  use  his 

Armes,  with  such  rudiments  of  warre  as  his 

tender  yeeres  in  those  martial  Schooles  could 

atlaine  unto:  he  was  desirous  to  see  more  of 

the  world,   and  trie   his  fortune  against  the 

Turkes ;  both  lamenting-  and  repenting  to  have 

seen  so  many  Christians  slaug-hter  one  another. 

Various    side    adventures   caused    him    to 

deviate  from  his  purpose  to  immediately  fight 

the   Turks.     He    was    nineteen    years    of    age 

when   he  arrived   in    France.     On   the   voyage 

over,  four  robbers  stole  his  baggage,   and    he 

had  to  sell  his  cloak  to  pay  his  passage.     He 

landed  in  Picardy  and  went  in   pursuit  of  the 

robbers.     He  was  in    great    poverty,    and,    as 

he  says : 

But  wandring  from  Port  to  Port  to  finde 
some  man-of-war,  spent  that  he  had  ;  and  in 


JOHN       SMITH  103 

a  Forest,  neere  dead  with  griefe  and  cold,  a 
rich  Farmer  found  him  by  a  faire  Fountaine 
under  a  tree.  This  kind  Pesant  releeved 
him  againe  to  his  content,  to  follow  his  intent. 
Soon  after  he  found  Cursell,  one  of  his 
robbers,  and,  to  follow  his  narrative: 

His  piercing-  injuries  had  so  small 
patience,  as  without  any  word  they  both 
drew,  and  in  a  short  time  Cursell  fell  to  the 
ground,  when,  from  an  ruinated  Tower,  the 
inhabitants  seeing  them  were  satisfied,  when 
they  heard  Cursell  confesse  what  had 
formerly  passed. 

He  next  came  to  the  chateaux  of  a  noble 
earl  in  Brittany,  whom  he  had  known  in 
England,  and  was  hospitably  treated  there, 
and  from  there  he  journeyed  over  France  for  a 
time,  surveying  fortresses  and  other  notable 
objects.  At  Marseilles  he  took  a  ship  for  Rome. 
His  voyage  was  not  a  happy  one  and  he 
describes  the  ship's  company  thus: 

Here  the  inhuman  Provincialls,  with  a 
rabble  of  Pilgrims  of  divers  Nations  going  to 
"Rome,  hourely  cursing  him,  not  only  for  a 
Hugenoit,  but  his  Nation  they  swore  were  all 
Pyrats,  and  so  vildly  railed  on  his  dread 
Soveraigne   Queene  Elizabeth,  and  that  they 


104      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

never  should  have  faire  weather  so  long*  as 
hee  was  aboard  them ;  their  disputations  grew 
to  that  passion,  that  they  threw  him  over- 
board: yet  God  brought  him  to  that  little  Isle, 
where  was  no  inhabitants,  but  a  few  kine  and 
goats. 

He  did  not  allow  this  indignity  however, 
without  breaking  a  good  many  heads.  The 
next  day  a  French  ship,  theBritaine  bound  for 
Alexandria  took  him  off,  and  he  grew  into 
great  favour  with  the  captain.  This  was 
always  his  way  ;  he  always  landed  on  his  feet. 
Fortune  was  continually  reducing  him  to  a  last 
gasp  and  then  suddenly  restoring  him  to 
comfort  and  safety.  Soon  after,  the  Britaine 
fell  in  with  a  large  Venetian  ship  with  a  rich 
cargo.  There  did  not  seem  to  be  any  particular 
occasion  for  a  battle,  but  of  course  there  had 
to  be  one,  and  it  arose  over  a  little  discourtesy 
on  the  part  of  the  Venetian.  The  Britaine 
hailed  her  and  she  replied  with  a  shot  that 
killed  a  sailor  on  the  Britaine.  A  terrific  battle 
ensued,  out  of  which  the  Britaine  came  off  victor. 
The  Venetian  ship  had  lost  twenty  men  and 
was  ready  to  sink,  and  so  part  of  the  cargo 
was  transferred  to  the  Britaine.  Smith  was 
no  deadhead  in  this  fight,  but  bore  his  part. 


JOHN       SMITH  105 

and  when  it  was  over,  he  received  for  his  share 
of  the  spoil  "five  hundred  chicqueenes,  and  a 
little  box  God  sent  him  worth  neere  as  much 
more."  In  those  days  piety  of  the  approved 
sort  always  had  Divine  assistance.  The  spoil 
must  have  been  great,  for  Smith  says: 

The  Silkes,  Velvets,  Cloth  of  gold  and 

Tissue,  Pyasters,  Chicqueenes  and  Sultanies, 

which   is  g"old  and   silver,  they  unloaded  in 

four  and   twentie   houres,   was   wonderful!; 

whereof  having  sufficient,  and  tired  with  toile, 

they  cast  her  off  with  her  company,  with  as 

much     good     merchandise     as    would    have 

fraughted  another  Britaine,  that  was  but  two 

hundred  Tunnes,  she  foure  or  five  hundred. 

He  landed  at  Piedmont  and  thence  traveled 

through  Italy,  into  Dalmatia  and  Albania.    At 

Rome  he  said  it  was   "his  chance  to  cee  Pope 

Clement    the    eight,     with    many    Cardinalls, 

Creepe  up  the  holy  Stayres,    which    they   say 

are  those  our  Saviour  Christ  went  up  to  Pontius 

Pilate.  "     He  was  still  eager  to  fight  the  Turks, 

and   finally   came   to    the   court    of   Archduke 

Ferdinand    of   Austria,     "where    he    met    an 

English    man    and    an     Irish     Jesuite;      who 

acquainted  him  with  many  brave  Gentlemen  of 

a   good    qualitie.  "     Soon    after  he  joined    the 


106      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

army,  the  Turks  beseiged  Olumpagh.      Smith 
suggested  to  Baron  Kissell,  one  of  his  superiour 
officers,     that    he    could    devise    a    system    of 
telegraphic  fires   and    communicate    with    the 
beseiged.     To  quote  from  Smith's  narrative: 
Kisell  inflamed  with  this  strange  inven- 
tion; Smith  made  it  so   plain,  that  forthwith 
hee  gave  him  guides,  who  in  the  darke  night 
brought  him  to  a  mountaine,  where  he  showed 
three  torches  equidistant   from   each   other 
which   plainly  appearing  to  the  Towne;  the 
Governour     presently      apprehended,     and 
answered  againe  with  three  other  fires  in  like 
manner;  each  knowing  the  other's  being  and 
intent;  Smith,  thought  distant  seven  miles, 
signified  to  him  these  words;  On  Thursday 
at   night  I   will   charge  on  the  East,  at  the 
Alarum,     salley    you.     Ebersbought,     com- 
mander of  the  city,  answered  that  he  would, 
and  thus  it  was  done. 

Smith  has  preserved  for  us  the  alphabet 
and  signals  that  he  used.  By  means  of  this 
plan  the  Duke's  army  and  the  beseiged  acted 
in  concert  and  the  Turks  were  defeated  with 
great  slaughter  and  compelled  to  raise  the 
seige.  In  this  same  battle  Smith  contrived  a 
plan  to  deceive  the  Turks  as  to  the  point    of 


JOHN      SMITH  107 

attack,  by  arranging  on  a  line  two  or  three 
thousand  pieces  of  match,  which  were  fired  all 
at  once,  that  it  might  appear  that  there  was 
the  Duke's  force  with  its  matchlocks.  Barely 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  after  this  battle.  Smith 
was  given  command  of  a  company  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  men.  At  the  seige  of  Stowlle- 
Wesenburg  in  1601,  Smith's  inventive  genius 
was  again  called  into  play.  He  prepared  some 
bombs  by  filling  earthern  pots  with  various 
explosive  and  inflammable  substances,  together 
with  musket  balls.  These  were  thrown  among 
the  Turks  from  slings.  He  describes  the 
effect : 

At  midnight  upon  the  Alarum,  it  was  a 
fearful  sig-ht  to  see  the  short  flaming  course 
of  their  flight  in  the  aire;  but  presently  after 
their  fall,  the  lamentable  noise  of  the 
miserable  slaughtered  Turks  was  most 
wonderfull  to  heare. 

Smith  with  most  excellent  naivete,  entitles 
these  devices  thus:  "An  excellent  stratagem 
by  Smith;"  "Another,  not  much  worse."  In 
this  siege  the  Christians  took  the  town  by 
storm,  "with  such  merciless  execution,  as  was 
most  pittiful  to  behold."  At  the  battle  of 
Girke,     soon    after,     the    Turks    w^ere    again 


108      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

defeated,    but    Smith   lost   half   his  regiment. 
Appealing  to  his  narrative  again : 

Captain  Smith  had  his  horse  slaine  under 
him,  and  himselfe  sore  wounded;  but  he  was 
not    long    unmounted  for    there  was  choice 
enough  of  horses  that  wanted  masters. 
Soon    after   the    Christian    army  beseiged 
Regall  in  the  Transylvania,   a  place  supposed 
to  be  almost  impregnable.     Now  Smith  gives 
us  one  of  the  most  dramatic  incidents  of  war: 
*     *     *     they    spent   neere   a  month  in 
entrenchingf  themselves    and    raising-    their 
mounts  to  plant  their  batteries.     Which  slow 
proceedings  the  Turkes  often  derided,  that 
the  Ordnance  were  at  pawne,  and  how  they 
grew   fat   for   want  of  exercise;  and  fearing- 
lest  they  should  depart  ere  they  could  assault 
their  citie,  sent  this  Challenge  to  any  Captaine 
in   the   Armie.     That   to  delight  the  ladies, 
who  did  long  to  see  some  court-like  pastime, 
the  Lord  Turbashaw  did  defie  any  Captaine, 
that  had  command  of  a  Company,  who  durst 
combat  with  him  for  his  head.     The  matter 
being   discussed,    it   was  accepted;   but   so 
many  questions  grew  for  the  undertaking,  it 
was  decided  by  lots ;  which  fell  upon  Captaine 
Smith,  before  spoken  of. 


JOHN      SMITH  109 

With  this  luck  to  favour  him,  Smith  rode 
before  the  armies  and  met  My  Lord  Turbashaw 
in  mortal  combat,  unhorsed  him  and  cut  off  his 
head.  "The  head  hee  presented  to  the  Lord 
Moyses,  the  Generall,  who  kindly  accepted  it: 
and  with  joy  to  the  whole  armie  he  was 
generally  welcome.  "  He  tells  us  also  that  the 
"Rampieres  were  all  beset  with  faire  Dames,  and 
men  in  Armes.  "  The  ennui  of  the  Turks  not 
being-  suffxciently  dissipated,  they  sent  another 
challenge  to  Smith  to  meet  one  Grualgo,  a 
friend  of  Turbashaw.  The  dauntless  Smith 
took  his  head,  and  sent  his  body  and  rich 
apparel  back  to  his  friends.  No  more  challenges 
coming  from  the  Turkish  camp,  Smith  took 
the  initiative.  "  *  *  *  to  delude  time, 
Smith  with  so  many  u neon tradictablepers wad- 
ing reasons,  obtained  leave  that  the  Ladies 
might  know  he  was  not  so  much  enamoured  of 
their  servants'  heads,  but  if  any  Turke  of  their 
ranke  would  come  to  the  place  of  com  bate  to 
redeeme  them,  should  have  his  also  upon  like 
conditions,  if  he  could  winne  it."  Bonny 
Mulgro,  a  Turkish  lord,  accepted  this  challenge 
and  the  combatants  met  with  great  fury  before 
the  armies.  The  first  advantage  was  with  the 
Turk,  and  Smith  lost  his  battle  axe: 


no      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

The  Turk  prosecuted  his  advantage  to 
the  uttermost  of  his  power;  yet  the  other, 
what  by  the  readiness  of  his  horse,  and  his 
judgment  and  dexterity  in  such  a  businesse, 
beyond  all  men's  expectation,  by  God's 
assistance,  not  only  avoided  the  Turke's 
violence,  but  having  drawne  his  Faulchion, 
pierced  the  Turke  so  under  the  Culets  thorow 
backe  and  body,  that  although  he  alighted 
from  his  horse,  he  stood  not  long  ere  hee  lost 
his  head,  as  the  rest  had  done. 
Smith  goes  on  to  say: 

This    good    success    gave     such     great 

encouragement  to  the  whole  Armie,  that  with 

a  guard  of  six  thousand,  three  spare  horses 

before  each,  a  Turke's  head  upon  a  Lance, 

he  was  conducted  to  the  Generall's  Pavillion 

with   his   Presents.     Moyses   received  both 

him  and  them  with  as  much  respect  as  the 

occasion   deserved,   embracing    him    in    his 

armes,    gave    him     a     faire     Horse     richly 

furnished,  a  Semitere  and  belt  worth  three 

hundred    ducats;  and    Meldritch  made  him 

Sergeant  of  his  regiment. 

These   valourous   performances   of   Smith 

before  the  walls  of  Reg  all  are  worthy  to  be  told 

of  Saladin  or  Richard  the  Lion-hearted,  or  of 


JOHN       SMITH  111 

an  earlier  chivalry.  I  cannot  find  that  there 
were  any  Christian  ladies  watching  these 
combats,  but  there  must  have  been,  for  Smith 
never  lacked  all  the  accessories  of  valour. 
With  the  Turkish  ladies  watching  from  the 
"Rampieres,"  it  would  have  been  cruel  in 
Fortune,  ever  so  kindly  to  Smith,  not  to  have 
supplied  the  scene  with  tearful  Christian  ladies 
to  welcome  him  back  from  the  fearful  field,  to 
bind  his  bruises  and  refresh  him  with  v/ords  of 
praise,  and  to  rejoice  over  the  downfall  of  the 
cruel  Turk,  the  enemy  of  all  women,  Turkish 
or  Christain.  After  a  desperate  struggle  the 
Christian  army  took  Regall  by  storm  and  all 
Turks  that  could  bear  arms  were  put  to  death. 
To  kill  Turks  in  those  days  was  considered  a 
work  of  great  merit.  The  superfluous  youth 
of  every  European  country,  thronged  to  do 
battle  with  the  hated  Turk.  England  sent 
her  share  of  these,  and  Smith  gives  the  roster 
of  the  English  dead  in  the  next  great  battle 
that  was  fought  with  the  Turks — Rottenton — 
in  which  the  Christian  army  was  cut  to  pieces. 
We  take  up  Smith's  narrative: 

And  thus  in  this  bloudy  field,  neere  30,000 
lay;  some  headlesse,  armlesse,  and  leg-lesse, 
all  cut  and  mangled;  where  breathing  their 


112      CRITICAL    CONFESSIONS 

last,  they  gaue  this  knowledg-e  to  the  world 
that  for  the  Hues  of  so  few,  the  Crym-Tartar 
neuerpaid  dearer.  Giue  mee  leaue  to  remem- 
ber the  names  of  our  owne  Country-men  with 
him  in  those  exploits,  that  as  resolutely  as  the 
best  in  the  defence  of  Christ  and  hisGospell 
ended  their  dayes,  as  Baskerfield,  Hardwick, 
Thomas  Milmer,  Robert  Mullineaux,  Thomas 
Bishop,  Francis  Corapton,  George  Davison, 
Nicholas  Williams,  and  one  John,  a  Scot,  did 
what  men  could  doe,  and  when  they  could  doe 
no  more,  left  there  their  bodies  in  testimonie 
of  their  mindes;  only  ensign  Carleton,  and 
Sergeant  Robinson  escaped.  But  Smith, 
among  the  slaughtered  dead  bodies,  and 
many  a  gasping  soule  with  toile  and  wounds, 
lay  groaning  among  the  rest,  till  being  found 
by  the  Pillagers,  hee  was  able  to  live;  and 
perceiving  by  his  armor  and  habit  his 
ransom  might  be  better  to  them  than  his 
death,  they  led  him  prisoner  with  many 
others. 

Smith  was  sold  into  slavery  at  Axapolis, 
and  purchased  by  one  Bashaw  Bogall,  who 
sent  him  as  a  present  to  his  mistress  in 
Constantinople,  assuring  her  that  the  slave 
was   a   ffreat   Bohemian   lord    whom    he    had 


JOHN       SMITH  113 

overcome.  "This  noble  gentlewoman,"  as 
Smith  calls  her,  took  a  more  than  friendly 
interest  in  her  sale.  She  could  talk  Italian  and 
feigned  herself  sick  that  she  might  make 
occasion  to  talk  with  him.  She  was  bound  to 
know  whether  Bogall  really  took  him  prisoner, 
or  whether  this  was  a  boast.  Smith  told 
her  that  he  was  an  "English-man,  onely  by 
his  adventures  made  a  Captaine  in  those 
Countreyes.  "  He  won  her  like  another  Othello, 
for  he  could  say  : 

She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd, 
And  I  loved  her  that  she  did  pity  them. 
He  says : 

She  tooke  much  compassion  on  him  ;  but 
having-  no  use  for  him,  lest  her  mother  should 
sell  him,  she  sent  him  to  her  brother,  the 
Tymor  Bashaw  of  Nalbritz  in  the  Countrey 
of  Gambia,  a  province  of  Tartaria.  *  *  * 
To  her  unkinde  brother,  this  kinde  Ladie 
writ  so  much  for  his  good  usage,  that  he  halfe 
suspected  as  much  as  she  intended;  for  shee 
told  him,  he  should  there  but  sojourne  to 
learne  the  language,  and  what  it  was  to  be  a 
Turk,  till  time  made  her  Master  other  selfe. 
The  brother  was  very  wroth  that  his  sister 
should  entertain  an  affection  for   a   Christian 


114      CRITICAL    CONFESSIONS 

dog:,  and  so  he  treated  Smith  with  great  cruelty, 
put  him  in  irons  and  made  him  a  slave  of  other 
slaves.  He  was  "no  more  regarded  than  a 
beast.  "     Smith  says  of  this  period: 

All  the  hope  he  ever  had  to  be  delivered 

from   this  thraldome    was  only   the   love  of 

Trag-big-zanda,  who   surely  was  ig-norant  of 

his  bad  usa^e. 

This  is  his  last  reference  to  his  Turkish 
mistress.  Smith  did  not  forget  her,  however, 
for  fourteen  years  later  when  he  was  surveying 
the  coast  of  New  England,  he  named  what  is 
now  Cape  Ann,  CapeTragbigzanda,  after  her. 
Prince  Charles,  with  no  respect  for  sentiment, 
changed  this  name  to  Cape  Ann.  Otherwise 
this  sand  dune  would  have  been  to  this  day  a 
geographical  monument  to  the  gallant  Captain 's 
earliest  romance.  How  this  bit  of  Turkish 
color  on  the  map  would  have  lighted  up  the 
horn-books.  Smith  finally  killed  his  master, 
the  Bashaw,  with  a  threshing  bat  and  made 
his  way  into  the  wilderness.  After  days  of 
wandering  and  much  suffering,  he  came  to  a 
Russian  outpost  on  the  river  Don,  and  thence 
found  his  way  into  Transylvania,  where  he  was 
received  as  one  arisen  from  the  dead,  with  great 
rejoicing.     He    says    "he    was    glutted    with 


JOHN       SMITH  115 

content,  and  neere  drowned  with  joy.  "  He 
came  to  the  camp  of  his  commander,  Duke 
Sigismund.  The  Duke  gave  him  a  sum  equal 
to  five  hundred  pounds  sterling  of  English 
money  and  a  patent  of  arms.  This  patent  is 
dated  December  9th,  1603,  and  Smith  had  it 
recorded  in  the  Herald's  Office  at  London, 
August  19th,  1625.  I  give  some  of  its  quaint 
recitals : 

*  *  *  we  have  g-iven  leave  and  license 
to  John  Smith,  an  English  Gentleman,  Captain 
of  250  Soldiers,  etc.  *  *  *  Wherefore  out 
of  our  love  and  favour  according  to  the  law  of 
Armes,  We  have  ordained  and  given  him  in 
his  shield  of  Armes,  the  fig-ure  and  descrip- 
tion of  three  Turks  heads,  which  with  his 
sword,  before  the  towne  of  Regall,  he  did 
overcome,  kill,  and  cut  off  in  the  Province  of 
Transilvania.  But  fortune,  as  she  is  very 
variable,  so  it  chanced  and  happened  to  him 
in  the  Province  of  Wallachia  in  the  yeare  of 
our  Lord  1602,  the  18th  day  of  November, 
when  he  with  many  others,  as  well  Noble 
men,  as  also  divers  other  Souldiers,  were 
taken  prisoners  by  the  Lord  Bashaw  of 
Gambia,  a  Country  of  Tartaria;  whose 
cruelty    brought    him     such    good  fortune. 


116      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

by  the  helpe  and  power  of  Almighty 
God,  that  hee  delivered  himselfe,  and  returned 
ag-aine  to  his  company  and  fellow  souldiers; 
of  whom  We  doe  discharge  him,  and  this  he 
hath  in  witnesse  thereof,  being  much  more 
worthy  of  a  better  reward;  and  now  intends 
to  return  to  his  owne  sweet  Country. 
Smith  says  of  this: 

With  great  honour  hee  gave  him  three 
Turkes  heads  in  a  Shield  for  his  Armes,  by 
Patent,  under  his  hand  and  Scale,  with  an 
Oath  ever  to  weare  them  in  his  V  Colours, 
his  Picture,  [i.  e.,  Sigismund's  portrait]  ib. 
Gould  and  three  hundred  Ducats,  yearely  for 
a  pension. 

What  would  not  some  of  our  tuft  hunters, 
who  buy  coats  of  arms  and  disport  them  in 
gaudy  and  meretricious  state,  give  for  the  right 
to  bear  such  a  title  of  nobility  as  this?  With 
all  our  spleen  against  titles,  the  most  ardent 
republican  might  yield  to  temptation,  if  he 
could  claim  such  a  token  of  noble  rank  as  this. 
But  for  one  fact,  I  would  not  answer  for  the 
virtue  of  the  most  ambitious  of  the  republican 
Smiths;  no  Smith  can  claim  to  be  the  lineal 
descendant  of  this  coat  of  arms,  for  he  who 
earned    it    with   his   valour,    died   a  bachelor. 


JOHN       SMITH  117 

Unless,  indeed,  he  should  have  the  undiscrim- 
inating  pride  of  race  of  a  certain  worthy  lady  I 
once  knew,  who  claimed  to  be  a  lineal  descendant 
of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

After  parting  with  Duke  Sigismund, 
Smith  traveled  through  Germany,  France  and 
Spain,  and  finally  determined  to  go  and  fight 
in  the  civil  wars  in  Morocco.  He  sailed  in  a 
French  ship  for  Africa,  but  changed  his 
purpose,  and  brave  as  he  was  does  not  hesitate 
to  record  that  this  was — 

By  reason  of  the  uncertaintie,  and  the 
perfidious,  treacherous,  bloudy  raurthers 
rather  than  warre,  among  those  perfidious, 
barbarous  Moores. 

He  did  not  lack  occasion  for  his  courage, 
however,  for  presently  the  French  ship  fell  in 
with  two  Spanish  men-of-war,  and  they  had  a 
brave  sea  fight  lasting  for  two  days.  The 
Frenchman  finally  beat  off  the  Spaniards  with 
the  loss  of  an  hundred  men.  This  ends  Smith's 
adventures  on  the  continent.  He  returned  to 
England  in  1604. 

Fitting  out  expeditions  for  the  New  World 
had  by  this  time  become  a  gentleman's 
adventure,  and  many  men  of  high  degree  joined 
in  these  expeditions.     After  the  voyages  of  the 


118      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

Cabots  under  English  authority  in  1598, 
England  remained  inactive  in  the  New  World 
for  about  one  hundred  years.  The  Cabots  had 
sailed  from  Labrador  to  Florida,  touching  here 
and  there  along  the  coast.  Yet  upon  this 
slender  scintilla  of  discovery  England  before  a 
hundred  years  had  passed,  claimed  sovereignty 
over  the  continent  from  sea  to  sea.  She  was 
always  equal  to  such  claims.  She  calmly  took 
seisin  of  a  continent  by  the  simple  act  of  going 
ashore  for  wood,  water  or  the  casual  circum- 
stances of  a  trade  of  glass  beads  with  some 
Indians.  The  other  European  nations  spent  a 
century  or  two  trying  to  get  used  to  this  British 
habit  of  claiming  the  most  of  the  earth.  The 
impact  of  the  beef -eaters  was  too  much  for 
them.  By  right  of  the  discovery  of  Cabot,  who 
was  the  first  white  man  to  see  the  continent  of 
North  America,  England  wrested  the  Hudson 
from  the  Dutch  and  absorbed  the  Swedish 
settlements  on  the  Delaware,  and  fought  with 
France  over  territory  for  about  a  hundred 
years,  and  finally  compelled  her  ancient  enemy 
to  yield  up  every  foot  of  land  east  of  the 
Mississippi.  In  like  manner  she  at  a  later  date 
reached  for  India,  seized  Australia  and  New 
Zealand,    and    innumerable    islands,    and  will 


J    O    H    N      S    M    I    T    H  119 

soon  have  Africa  in  her  grasp.  It  is  comforting 
to  put  the  responsibility  for  this  outreaching 
on  Destiny. 

When  she  parted  company  with  her  children 
on  this  vside  of  the  Atlantic,  she  bequeathed  to 
them  a  generous  portion  of  Destiny.  Americans 
took  Texas  from  the  weaker  Mexicans,  and 
then  California.  Spain  yielded  up  Florida 
because  she  must  have  known  we  were  bound 
to  have  it  anyway.  Napoleon  probably  had  the 
same  fear  when  he  sold  us  Louisiana,  for  our 
western  pioneers,  for  3''ears  before  he  sold  it,  had 
been  threatening  to  break  through  the  French 
barrier  at  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi.  We 
had  an  attack  of  Destiny  lately  and  annexed 
Haiwaii.  Next  comes  Porto  Rico,  and  the 
Philippines,  and  by  and  bye,  Cuba.  Between 
spells  we  have  dispossessed  the  Indians  of  nearly 
all  the  lands  they  once  held.  In  view  of  our 
record  it  seems  a  huge  jest  to  see  our  pharisees 
and  devotees  of  the  gospel  of  cant,  grow  tender- 
hearted over  England's  greed  for  territory. 
How  we  do  pity  the  poor  Boer,  and  the  enslaved 
Hindoo.  When  a  few  missionaries'  sons  stole 
Haiwaii  from  the  simple  natives,  we  blandly 
received  this  acquisition  and  thanked  God  we 
are  not  as  Englishmen  are.     At  a  time  when 


120      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

we  owned  millions  of  slaves  we  were  holding 
mass  meetings  to  denounce  the  oppression  of 
Ireland.  Thus  securely  enthroned  upon  her 
virtuous  pedestal  Columbia  has  made  great 
discoveries  of  motes  in  her  neighbours'  eyes. 
Occasionally  she  will  vacate  her  coign  of  vantage 
long  enough  to  grab  a  few  principalities  that 
may  happen  to  be  lying  around  loose.  But  her 
eyes  are  always  rolled  heavenward  in  holy 
contemplation  of  the  beatitudes  of  "equal 
rights,"  and  of  "government  by  the  consent 
of  the  governed.  "  All  would  be  well  and  we 
should  at  least  escape  the  charge  of  hyprocisy, 
if  we  would  drop  Cant,  and  boldly  avow  that 
England  or  America,  or  any  other  civilized 
nation  has  the  right  to  seize  and  hold  and 
police  the  lands  of  blood  and  barbarism,  and 
make  them  a  safe  abiding  place  for  native  and 
stranger  alike. 

After  having  exhausted  the  pleasures  of 
European  warfare.  Smith  came  to  England, 
and  threw  himself  with  ardour  into  the  coloniza- 
tion of  the  New  World.  He  sailed  with  an 
expedition  for  the  American  continent  in  1606. 
On  the  way  out  he  was  accused  of  conspiracy 
and  imprisoned,  but  on  reaching  America,  he 
established  his  innocence  and  was  liberated  and 


JOHN       SMITH  121 

admitted  to  The  Council.  The  lives  of  all  the 
men  who  plotted  against  him  were  afterwards 
at  his  mercy,  but  he  spared  them.  Once  again 
his  life  was  attempted  by  .secret  plotters  in  his 
own  force,  but  he  escaped  although  at  this  time 
he  was  badly  injured  by  a  gunpowder  explosion. 
Every  schoolboy  knows  his  adventures  in 
Virginia.  He  was  great-hearted,  devoted,  and 
untiring,  the  life  and  soul  of  the  infant  colonies, 
and  proved  that  he  was  born  for  counsel  as 
well  as  for  war.  He  had  the  craft  of  Ulysses 
in  his  dealings  with  the  Indians,  and  though 
he  was  severe  towards  their  treacheries,  he  was 
humane.  His  treaties  with  them,  his  many 
hairbreadth  escapes,  his  battles  with  them,  his 
capture  and  rescue  from  death  by  the  Indian 
maiden  Pocahontas,  are  familiar  tales.  They 
cannot  be  recounted  within  the  bounds  of  this 
sketch.  Posterity  has  made  him  the  central 
figure  of  one  heroic  incident,  forgetting  his 
many-sidedness,  and  the  many  other  scenes,  in 
which  he  faced  death.  As  a  man  of  letters  he 
is  well-nigh  forgotten,  although  he  wrote  many 
his  ories,  and  a  partial  autobiography,  wherein, 
with  the  modesty  of  a  great  soldier  he  told  in 
vivid  language  of  his  perils  and  adventures. 
He  was  so  modest  in  his  first  book,    The  True 


122      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

Relation,     that     he     did     not     mention     the 

Pocahontas    incident,     and     one    dry-as-dust 

antiquarian  has  seen  fit  from  this  omission  to 

throw    doubt    on    the   story.     Smith     was    so 

familiar  with  death  that  he  might  well  omit  to 

mention  all  his  chance  meetings  with  it.     To 

him  this  was  only  a  casual  circumstance,  a  mere 

informal  passing  the  time  of  day  with  Death, 

and  no  more  worthy  of  a  chronicle  than  any  of 

the  other  thrilling  encounters  with  the  great 

destroyer.     No  one  doubted  the  story   in    his 

lifetime,  and  many  of  his   contemporaries  have 

testified  to  it.     Seemingly  fearful  that  he  might 

be   charged    with    ingratitude  for   making    no 

record  of  it,  in  June,  1616,  he  addressed  a  letter 

to  ''The  most  High,  and  Vertuous   Princesse, 

Queen  Anne  of  Great  Brittanie,  "  as  follows: 

The  loue  I  beare  my  God,  1113'  King  and 

Countrie,  hath  so  oft  emboldened  mee  in  the 

worst  of  extreme  dangers,  that  now  honestie 

doth  constraine  mee  to  presume  thus  farre 

beyond  my  selfe,  to  present  your  Maiestie  this 

short  discourse;  if  ingratitude  be  a  deadly 

poyson  to  all  honest  vertues,  I  must  be  guiltie 

of  that  crime  if  I  should  omit  any  meanes  to  be 

thankful.    So  it  is,  that  some  ten  yeeresagoe, 

being  in  Virginia,  and  taken  prisoner  by  the 


JOHN       SMITH  123 

power  of  Powhatan  their  chiefe  King-,  I 
receiued  from  this  great  Saluage  exceeding 
great  courtesie,  especially  from  his  sonne 
Nantaquaus,  the  most  manliest,  comeliest, 
boldest  spirit,  I  euer  saw  in  a  Saluag^e,  and 
his  sister,  Pocahontas,  the  Kings  most  deare 
and  wel-beloued  daughter,  being  but  a  childe 
of  twelue  or  thirteene  yeeres  of  age,  whose 
compassionate  pitif  ull  heart,  of  my  desperate 
estate,  g-aue  me  much  cause  to  respect  her: 
I  being  the  first  Christian  this  proud  King- 
and  his  g-rim  attendants  euer  saw;  and  thus 
inthralled  in  their  barbarous  power,  I  cannot 
say  I  felt  the  least  occasion  of  want  that  was 
in  the  power  of  those  my  mortall  foes  to 
preuent,  notwithstanding-  al  their  threats. 
After  some  six  weeks  fatting-  among-  those 
Saluag-e  Courtiers,  at  the  minute  of  my 
execution,  she  hazarded  the  beating-  out  of 
her  owne  brains  to  saue  mine;  and  not  onely 
that,  but  so  preuailed  with  her  father  that  I 
was  safely  conducted  to  lames  towne;  where 
I  found  about  eight  and  thirtie  miserable 
poore  and  sicke  creatures  to  keepe  possession 
of  all  those  large  territories  of  Virginia;  such 
was  the  weakness  of  this  poore  Common- 
wealth, as  had  the  Saluages  not  fed  vs,  we 


124      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

directly  had  starued.     And  this  reliefe,  most 
gracious  Queen,  was  commonly  brought  vs 
by  this  Lady  Pocahontas. 
The  Indian  Princess  fed  the  colonists  and 
warned  them  of  plots  against   them.     Finally 
she  came  at  a  later  day  after  Smith  had  gone 
to    Europe,    and    they  told  her  he   was  dead. 
She  then  married  an  English  gentleman  by  the 
name  of  Rolf.     Smith  met  her  after  her  marriage 
and  at  first  she  was  cool  and  would  not  speak. 
As  he  tells  of  this  meeting: 

But  not  long  after  she  beg-an  to  talke, 
and  remembered  mee  well  what  courtesies 
shee  had  done,  saying,  You  did  promise 
Powhatan  what  was  yours  should  bee  his  and 
hee  the  like  to  you;  you  called  him  father 
being  in  his  land  a  stranger,  and  by  the  same 
reason  so  must  I  doe  you;  which  thoug-h  I 
would  have  excused,  I  durst  not  allow  of  that 
title,  because  she  was  a  King's  daughter; 
with  a  well  set  countenance  she  said,  Were 
you  not  afraid  to  come  into  my  father's 
Countrie,  and  caused  feare  in  him  and  all 
his  people  [but  mee]  and  feare  you  here  I 
should  call  you  father;  I  tell  you  then  I  will, 
and  you  shall  call  mee  childe,  and  so  I  will 
bee  for   ever  and   ever   your    Countrieman. 


JOHN      SMITH  125 

They  did  tell  vs  alwaies  you  were  dead,  and 
I  knew  no  other  until  I  came  to  Plimoth. 
From  this  it  would  seem  that  but  for  a 
chance  estrangement,  Smith  would  not  have 
lived  and  died  a  bachelor.  Although  the  dust 
has  gathered  upon  his  fame,  he  was  not 
unhonoured  in  his  own  day.  His  companions 
in  peril  and  his  friends  in  England,  have  given 
him  unstinted  praise.  Some  of  them  marred 
eulogy,  by  putting  his  praises  into  verse,  and 
we  are  compelled  to  say  that  none  of  them 
were  poets.  They  entered  into  a  poetical 
conspiracy  of  great  magnitude  against  the 
beloved  one.  This  is  probably  a  sure  certificate 
of  fame,  for  no  man  can  truly  be  called  great 
until  admiring  worshippers  have  written  poetry 
about  him.  It  is  true  that  many  men  of  small 
figure  come  to  this  favour,  but  they  make  fine 
verse  only  a  grotesque  pleasantry — a  tinsel 
sw  >rd  and  crown.  But  mere  doggerel  gains  a 
dignity  when  it  is  spent  in  eulogy  of  real 
greatness,  as  the  manhood  of  Ulysses  shone 
through  his  rags  and  dignified  them  when  he 
returned  to  his  own  hall.  Bad  as  they  are,  I 
consider  these  loving  eulogists  worthy  of  some 
mention.     R.  Braith wait  indites  his  verse,    "To 


126      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

ray  worthy  friend,   Captain  lohn   Smith."     In 
this  he  alludes  to: 

Trag-abig-zanda,  Callaraata's  love, 
Deare  Pocahontas,  Madam  Shanoi's  too. 
I  take  the  liberty  of  suggesting  that 
for  Calamata's  love  we  read  "Calamity's 
love,"  believing  that  this  is  only  another 
form  of  naming  the  Turkish  Princess,  and 
does  not  mean  another  love,  and  that  this 
line  lost  its  real  meaning  in  the  transcription. 
But  what  shall  be  said  of  "Madam  Shanoi's 
too?"  and  was  she  another  love,  and  was 
Smith  a  soldier  of  many  loves?  This  being  the 
only  record  of  Madam  Shanoi,  she  will  have  to 
be  dismissed  as  an  unimportant  personage,  and 
a  mere  casual  intrusion  into  history.  It  is  quite 
evident  that  we  are  warranted  in  maintaining 
that  Smith's  real  loves  like  those  of  kings,  made 
history,  and  when  they  did  not  do  this  they 
were  the  merest  ephemera  of  the  affections. 
Braithwait  concludes  with : 

And  I  could  wish  [such  wishes  would  doe  well,] 
Many  such  Smiths  in  this  our  Israel. 
Anthony  Fereby,  begins  his  verse : 
"To  my  noble  brother  and  friend.  "    He  says: 
*     *     *  for  what  deservedly 
"With  thy  lifes  danger,  valour,  pollicy. 


J    O    H    N      S    M    I    T    H  127 

Quaint  warlike  stratag-ems,  abillity 

And  Judg-ement,  thou  has  got,  fame  sets  so 

high 
Detraction   cannot    reach ;    thy    worth    shall 

stand 
A  patterne  to  succeeding-  ages.     *     *     * 
Tuissimus  Ed.  Jorden,  addresses  his  verse 
"To  his  valiant  and    deserving  friend."     His 
eulogy  closes  thus: 

Good  men  will  yeeld  thee  praise;  then  sleight 

the  rest; 
Tis  best  praise-worthy  to  have  pleased  the 
best. 
Richard  James,  speaks  of  his: 

Deare  noble  Captaine,  who  by  Sea  and  Land, 
To  act  the  earnest  of  thy  name  hast  hand 
And  heart;     *     *     * 

Ma.   Hawkins  achieves  the    worst   poetry, 
opt  ling  with  the  thrilling  line: 

Thou  that  hast  had  a  spirit  to  fiie  like  thunder. 
Richard    Meade    inquires    in    a    burst   of 
poetical  emotion : 

Will  not  thy  Country  yet  reward  thy  merit; 
Nor  in  thy  acts  and  writings  take  delight? 
In  his  closing  line  Edward   Ingham    avers 
that: 

Reader  'tis  true;  I  am  not  brib'd  to  flatter, 


128      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

as  if  his  poetry  were  not  evidence  enough  on 
this  point. 

M.  Gartner  says : 

But  verse  thou  need'st  not  to  expresse  thy 

worth. 
He  compares  Smith  to  the  famed  Ithacan, 
and  so  also  do  I.  C,  and  C.  P.,  two  unnamed 
eulogists  who  take  a  strong  classical  vein. 
Brian  O'Rourke  with  true  Hibernian  splendour 
of  diction  begins  with  this  line: 

To  see  bright  honour  sparkled  all  in  gore. 
Salo.  Tanner  says: 

Let  Mars  and  Nepture  both  with  pregnant 
wit, 

Extol  thy  due  deserts,  He  pray  for  it. 
Smith  offered  to  lead  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 
to  America  in  1619,  but  the  mission  was  denied 
him  because  he  was  not  a  Puritan.  He  died 
in  1631,  having  spent  the  last  years  of  his  life 
in  authorship.  His  accounts  of  his  life  and 
explorations  on  this  continent  are  filled  with 
historical  facts  of  real  value.  He  was  not  too 
much  of  an  historian  to  disdain  small  things, 
and  even  gives  the  names  of  his  comrades  and 
fellow  colonists.  This  method  of  writing  history 
puts  the  thrill  of  human  life  into  what  he 
relates.     One  cannot  help  but   feel    a  friendly 


JOHN       SMITH  129 

Interest  in  the  Wests,  theRussells,  the  Burtoras, 
the    Bradleys,    and    the   Walkers,    and    many 
others    of    familiar    sound,    for   these   are   the 
names    of    people    all    about    you.     You    find 
yourself    wondering     whether     Burton,     your 
shoemaker,  is  a  descendant  of  the  early  adven- 
turer,    and    whether    Russell    your    surgeon, 
derived  any  of  his  skill  by  inheritance  from  a 
soldier  ancestor,   who   went    out    with    Smith, 
and  did  his  carving  with  the  sword.     As  old 
Fuller  quaintly  says  in  like  case,  taking  as  his 
text  the    discovery   of  a  Hastings   among    the 
peasantry  on  the  Earl  of  Huntingdon's  estate: 
And  I  have  reason  to  believe,  that  some 
who  justly  own  the  surnames  and  blood  of 
Bohuns,  Mortimers  and  Plantag-anets  [though 
ignorant  of  their  own  extractions,]  are  hid 
'n  the  heap  of  common  people,  where  they 
find    that    under   a   thatched   cottage   which 
some  of  their  ancestors  could  not  enjoy  in  a 
leaded  castle — contentment,  with  quiet  and 
security. 

The  painted  walking  sticks  who  become 
cabinet  ministers,  the  accidents  of  birth  who 
become  kings  and  the  accidents  of  politics  who 
become  presidents,  who  infest  the  pages  of 
history  with    a    desicated   and   puerile   immor- 


130      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

tality,  cut  but  a  sorry  figure  when  aligned  with 
a  manhood  like  this  great  captain's.  The 
Genius  of  Platitude  and  Palaver  has  tried  in 
vain  to  make  them  great;  he  is  great  because 
he  has  done  the  things,  and  no  man  ever  spoke 
better  of  his  deeds  than  the  truth  would  bear. 
An  English  scholar,  who  has  compiled  his 
works,  says  of  him  : 

One   cannot   read   the    following-  Works 
without  seeing  that  JohnSmith  was  something 
more  than  a  brave  and  experienced  soldier. 
Not  only  in  his  modesty  and  self  restraint, 
his  moderation  and  magnanimity,  his  loyalty 
to  the  King,  affection  for  the   Church,   and 
love  for  his  Country,  did  he   represent  the 
best  type  of  the  English  Gentleman  of  his 
day;  but  he  was  also  a  man  of  singular  and 
varied  ability.     *     *     *     It  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  had  not  Captain  Smith   of   Wil- 
loughb}^  strove,  fought  and   endured  as  he 
did,  the  present  United  States  of  America 
might  never  have  come  into  existence. 
A  pleasing  eulogy  to  read  is  that  of  two 
of  the  survivors  of  the  "starving  time,  "  of  the 
Virginia  colony,   as  it  was  called.     They  thus 
testified  to  his  worth : 

*     *     *     that  in  all  his  proceedings  made 


J    O    H    N       S    M    I    T    H  131 

justice   his  first  g-uide   and   experience   his 

second ;  ever  hating  baseness,  sloth,  pride  and 

indignity,  more  than  any  dangers;  that  never 

allowed  more  for  himself  than  for  his  soldiers 

with  him;  that  upon  no  danger  would  send 

them  where  he  would  not  lead  them  himself; 

that  would  never  see  us  want  what  he  either 

had,    or    could    by   any    means   get  us;  that 

would   rather   want  than  borrow,  or  starve 

than  not  pay;  that  loved  actions  more  than 

words,    and    hated    falsehood   aild   cozenage 

more  than  death  ;  whose  adventures  were  our 

lives  and  whose  loss  our  deaths. 

But  the  best  key  to  his  character  is  found 

in  his  written   works.     There  in  simple  words 

th.  t   can    charm    little   children,    this   faithful 

heait  is  recorded.     In  one  burst  of  retrospect, 

he  says : 

Having-  been  a  slaue  to  the  Turks, 
prisoner  amongst  the  most  barbarous 
Saluages,  after  my  deliuerance  commonly 
discouering-  and  ranging-  those  large  rivers 
and  unknowne  Nations  with  such  a  handfull 
of  ignorant  companions  that  the  wiser  sort 
often  gave  me  up  for  lost,  alwayes  in  mutinies, 
wants  and  miseries,  blowne  up  with  gun- 
powder;   a  long   time   prisoner  among  the 


132      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

French  Pyrats,  from  whom  escaping  in  a 
little  boat  by  my  selfe,  and  adrift  all  such  a 
stormy  winter  night  when  their  ships  were 
split,  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  pounds 
lost,  they  had  taken  at  sea,  and  most  of  them 
drowned  on  the  He  of  Ree,  not  farr  from 
whence  I  was  driven  ashore  in  my  little  boat, 
&c.  And  many  a  score  of  the  worst  of  winter 
moneths  lived  in  the  fields;  yet  to  have  lived 
neere  37  yeares  in  the  midst  of  wars,  pestil- 
ence and  famine,  by  which  many  hundred 
thousand  have  died  about  mee,  and  scarce 
five  living  of  them  that  went  first  with  mee 
to  Virginia;  and  yet  to  see  the  fruits  of  my 
labours  thus  well  begin  to  prosper;  though 
I  have  but  my  labour  for  my  pains,  have  I 
not  much  reason  both  privately  and  publikely 
to  acknowledge  it  and  give  God  thankes, 
whose  omnipotent  power  onely  delivered  me, 
to  doe  the  utmost  of  my  best  to  make  his 
name  knowne  in  those  remote  parts  of  the 
world,  and  his  loving  mercy  to  such  a 
miserable  sinner. 
Again  he  says : 

Who  can  desire  more  content  that  hath 
small  meanes;  or  but  only  his  merit  to 
aduance  his  fortune,  then  to  tread  and  plant 


J    O    H    N       S    M    I    T    H  133 

that  ground  hee  hath  purchased  by  the 
hazzard  of  his  life?  If  he  haue  but  the  taste 
of  virtue  and  mag-nanimitie,  what  to  such  a 
minde  can  bee  more  pleasant,  than  planting- 
and  building-  a  foundation  for  his  Posteritie, 
g-otte  from  the  rude  earth  by  God's  blessing 
and  his  owne  industrie,  without  prejudice  to 
any?  If  hee  haue  any  g-raine  of  faith  or  zeale 
in  Relig-ion,  what  can  hee  doe  lesse  hurtfull 
to  any,  or  more  agreeable  to  God;  then  to 
seeke  to  conuert  those  poore  Saluages  to  know 
Christ  and  humanitie,  whose  labours  with 
discretion  will  triple  requite  thy  charge  and 
paines?  What  so  truely  suites  with  honour 
and  honestie,  as  the  discouering-  things 
unknowne?  erecting-  Townes,  peopling- 
Countries,  informing-  the  ignorant,  reforming- 
thing-s  vniust,  teaching-  virtue;  and  gaine  to 
our  Native  mother-countrie  a  king-dom  to 
attend  her;  finde  imployment  for  those  that 
are  idle,  because  they  know  not  what  to  doe; 
so  farre  from  wronging  any,  as  to  cause 
Posteritie  to  remember  thee  and  remember- 
ing- thee  euer  honour  that  remembrance  with 
praise?  *  *  *  Then  seeing-  we  are  not 
borne  for  our  selues,  but  each  tohelpe  other, 
and  our  abilities  are  much  alike  at  the  houre 


134      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

of  our  birth   and  the  minute  of  our   death; 
Seeing-   our   good  deedes,  or  our  badde,   by 
faith    in    Christ's    merits,    is  all  we  haue  to 
Carrie  our  soules  to  heauen,  or  hell;  Seeing 
honour  is  our  Hues  ambition ;  and  our  ambition 
after  death  to  haue  an  honourable  memorie 
of  our  life;  and  seeing-  by  noe  meanes  wee 
would  bee  abated  of  the  dignities  and  glories 
of  our   predecessors;    let    vs    imitate    their 
vertues,  to  bee  worthily  their  successors. 
Sleep  great  Captain  In  your  humble  grave 
— you  who  were  thrice  worthy  to  be  laid  beside 
great    kings    at    Westminster.     No    grave    of 
England's  dead  holds  more  kingly  dust  than 
yours.     We  have  read  your  story  as  you  and 
your  companions  in  arms  have  set  it  down.     It 
is  a  tale  of  many  lands  and  many  peoples,  of 
life  eloquent  and  glorious.     It  brings  us  close 
to  you  and  makes  three  hundred    years  seem 
but  as  a  day.     We  have  walked  beside  you  as 
with    satchel   and    shining    morning   face   you 
crept,  like  snail,  unwillingly  to  school.     We  have 
seen  your  hermitage  in  the  woods  of  Lincolnshire 
where  you  took  the  queen's  deer,  and  communed 
with  Marcus  Aurelius,   dreaming  of  greatness 
like  his.      Dear  to  us  is  every  passing  fancy  and 
every   careless   grace    of   that    noble   non-age. 


J    O    H    N       S    M    I    T    H  135 

Dear  and  friendly  are  you  as  you  lead  us  among 
the  battle-fields  of  Europe,  and  through  the 
perils  that  beset  you.  We  have  fearfully 
watched  you  careering  down  the  lists  at  Regall 
to  meet  the  flower  of  Turkish  chivalry.  We 
have  felt  your  heart-throbs  when  the  Turkish 
maiden  made  you  a  double  captive,  and  we 
thought  no  ill  of  you  that  you  honoured  her 
love  with  your  gratitude,  and  cherished  her 
memory  after  many  years  had  gone  when  you 
came  to  name  the  new  world.  Whether  in 
school-boy  cap  and  gown,  or  clad  in  mail,  or 
naked  in  slavery,  or  bound  before  Powhattan 
av^aiting  his  dreadful  judgment,  or  watching 
and  guarding  Western  Civilization  in  its  very 
cradle-time,  you  were  a  man. 


A     DEFERRED     CRITICISM 

TO  A  POETESS  OF  PASSION 

YOU  in  the  Bohemia  of  newspaperdom  must 
be  constantly  reminded  as  I  am  in  other 
places,  that  the  age  of  chivalry  is  not  yet 
past.  The  pencil  of  the  wandering  hack-writer 
still  does  as  much  for  the  succour  of  distressed 
damsels  seeking  fame  as  did  the  lance  of  the 
ancient  knight  for  his  lady  fair. 

The  lady  lawyer,  I  use  this  term  unad- 
visedly, argues  her  first  case,  and  this  becomes 
an  event  worthy  of  an  admiring  chronicle.  The 
charms  of  toilet,  the  grace  of  manner,  and  the 
erudition  of  the  fair  Portia,  are  set  forth  with 
glowing  eulogy.  Young  Briefless  might  argue 
twenty  cases  and  not  awaken  half  this  interest. 
Perhaps  if  Portia  would  analyze  the  flattery 
offered  her  she  might  come  to  doubt  whether  it 
was  entirely  complimentary,  and  might  feel 
that  it  carried  with  it  a  certain  astonishment 
that  a  mere  woman  should  do  so  well,  instead 
of  assuming  this  as  a  matter  of  course.     But 


A    DEFERRED     CRITICISM        137 

flattery  Is  as  immune  from  analysis  on  the  part 
of  the  greedy,  as  sugar-plums.  The  new  ways 
of  the  sex  bring  multiform  embarrassments,  and 
your  critic  has  not  the  least  of  these.  The 
aged  professor  and  the  young  medico  at  the 
clinic  and  in  the  dissecting  room  hardly  know 
how  to  harmonize  their  new  relations  tow^ards 
the  brave  intruder  upon  their  ways.  Portia  in 
the  court  room  is  apt  to  demand  all  things  as 
belonging  to  her  of  hereditary  right,  and  to 
concede  as  few  obligations  on  her  ow^n  part,  as 
possible.  The  seasoned  practitioner  hardly 
knows  how  much  satire  or  brute  strength  he 
may  use  to  check  her,  or  how  much  deference 
he  should  show  her  when  he  finds  her  tempted 
into  trickery  or  pettifogging.  So  he  shuffles 
and  temporizes  and  evades  responsibility,  and 
saves  his  thunderbolts  for  the  next  bout  with 
his  learned  brother. 

One  cannot  object  to  the  emancipation  of 
sex,  but  can  fairly  object  to  the  self  conscious 
way  in  which  the  emancipation  goes  on.  The 
demand  upon  our  attention  by  women  who 
are  admitted  to  the  bar,  or  who  write  books, 
or  turn  politicians,  or  practice  medicine,  or  do 
the  other  things  that  seem  novelties  to  them, 
has    become  a  bore.     It  is  not  necessary  that 


138      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

these  pioneers  vshould  be  eternally  calling  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  they  are  women.  Men  do 
all  these  things,  and,  heaven  knows,  are  vain 
enough  about  it,  but  they  do  them  without  the 
air  of  saying  "You  see,  I  am  only  a  man,  and 
yet  I  can  do  this."  May  we  not  be  allowed  to 
yet  look  on  woman  as  a  part  of  the  great 
human  family  and  not  as  a  distinct  species? 

Although  literature  is  not  a  new  field  for 
women,  yet  the  consciousness  of  sex  follows 
them  there,  and  becomes  the  worst  of  hyper- 
trophied  mental  tissue.  I  cannot  find  that 
"violet- weaving,  pure,  sweet-smiling  Sappho" 
was  thus  afflicted,  and  it  is  now  nearly  three 
thousand  vears  since  she  sang  of  love.  So  we 
must  now  be  in  a  time  of  retrogression.  These 
prefatory  observations  concluded,  I  am  pre- 
sumptions enough  to  think  that  lean,  without 
violating  the  proper  canons  of  gallantry  sug- 
gest some  reasons  which  may  cause  you  to 
refrain  from  further  poetical  activity  along 
certain  lines. 

Some  trespass  on  gallantry  should  be  par- 
doned, for  gallantry  in  our  sex  has  been  the 
bane  of  your  life.  It  has  spoiled  any  promise 
you  may  have  shown  in  earlier  years.  I  remem- 
ber when  you    were  first    putting   forth    your 


A     DEFERRED     CRITICISM         139 

maiden  efforts  in  verse.  They  were  good 
enough  rhymes  to  be  published  in  the  cross- 
roads weekly  free  of  charge.  It  is  true,  as  even 
you  must  admit,  that  if  you  thought  them 
poetry  you  were  more  self-flattered  than 
Malvolio.  They  were  just  plain  rhymes;  little 
jingles,  and  sometimes  little  jangles.  I  have 
tried  to  give  them  no  dull-eared  search,  yet  I 
cannot  find  a  single  line  in  them  that  is  really 
yours  that  rings  with  music  and  power.  How- 
ever, if  your  verse  had  been  simply  of  woods, 
and  hills,  and  streams,  and  summer  days,  and 
blossoming  flowers,  you  would  have  lived 
unknown  to  the  great  world,  although  you 
might  have  been  the  queen  of  letters  at  the 
cross-roads.  But  your  constituency  would  have 
been  limited  by  the  subscription  list  of  the 
cross-roads  weekly.  Whether  by  accident  or 
design  you  struck  other  than  bucolic  themes 
and  opened  a  vein  of  most  amatory  verse,  and 
this  advertised  you  because  it  was  excessively 
amatory.  You  also  met  a  lot  of  good  fellows, 
both  young  and  old  in  the  newspaper  world. 
They  are  always  lion  hunters,  eager  to  make 
new  finds,  and  gallant  and  quick  to  extend 
help  to  the  latest  female  immigrant  into 
Bohemia.     They  gave  you  the  freedom  of  the 


140      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

kinpfdom  in  two-column  laudation.  Thev  bade 
Flattery  play  you  silvery  airs  and  agreed  that 
you  should  be  heralded  as  a  poet.  They  puffed 
your  poems,  and,  gross  and  palpable  though  it 
was,  you  sickened  not,  but  under  this  inspira- 
tion only  ground  out  more.  They  announced 
your  goings  and  your  comings,  and  varied  the 
monotony  of  their  efforts  to  give  you  fame  by 
occasionally  announcing  that  you  were  about  to 
be  married  to  a  distinguished  gentleman,  to 
whom,  with  their  light  and  playful  fancy,  they 
attached  great  place  in  wealth  or  position. 
When  a  mere  man  journeys  from  place  to  place, 
the  gleaners  for  the  press  do  not  alw^ays  attend 
upon  him,  unless,  indeed,  he  should  happen  to 
be  a  criminal  or  some  other  person  of  equal 
importance.  But  if  you  should  happen  to 
make  a  metropolitan  visit,  Genial  Jenkins  would 
be  rapping  at  your  boudoir  door  within  half  an 
hour  after  your  arrival.  Then  as  surely  follows 
this  interview  which  I  take  from  next  morning's 
Daily  Bangle. 

The  reporter  for  the  Bangle  met  with  a 
pleasant  reception  last  evenings  from  the 
beautiful  Poetess  of  Passion  in  her  charming- 
Boudoir  at  the  Auditorium.  She  wore  a  pale 
green  tea-gown  which    showed    to    decided 


A     DEFERRED     CRITICISM         HI 

advautag-e  her  petite  and  symmetrical  figure. 
Your  reporter  caug-ht  the  merest  tantalizing- 
glimpse  of  a  white  satin  slipper,  tog-ether 
with  its  contents,  peeping- from  the  wondrous 
tea-gown.  The  softly  shaded  electric  light 
shed  a  langorous  glamour  over  the  sparkling- 
eyes  and  dimpled  cheeks  of  the  poetess. 

"May  I  ask  what  literary  work  you  are 
now  engag-ed  on?"  I  said,  after  I  had  been 
cordially  greeted. 

"O,  I  have  concluded  to  write  a  novel  of 

the  Present,  which  will  also  be  a  novel  of  the 

Future,"  said    the   poetess.     "It  will  be  in 

the  hig-hest  form  fin  de  siecle  .     I  shall  give 

a  realistic  picture  of  the  young  man  of  the 

present  day  with  all  his  vices.     It  has  been 

said  so  often  by  the  critics  in  this  country 

and  Europe  that  I  could  only  excel  in  verse 

and  especially  in  the  poetry  of  the  passions, 

that  I  shall  now  produce  something-  worthy 

in  prose,  for  I  have  really  achieved   all  the 

fame  I  care  for  in  poetry. 

Of  course  this  is  quoted  from  memory  and 

I  cannot  give  the  literal  rendering  of  the  blank 

form  used  for  these  many  interviews.     But  you 

have  a  surer  authority ;  turn  to  your  scrap-book 

of  newspaper  clippings  about  yourself  and  you 


142      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

will  find  this  interview  there,  tea-gowm,  slippers 
and  all.  They  are  ancient  stage  properties  of 
yours,  although  of  late  years  they  have  had  a 
diminishing  use.  But  puffing  counts  in  the 
long  run ;  it  makes  prime  ministers  as  well  as 
poets.  You  had  some  commendation  that  was 
honest  enough  even  though  it  was  shallow. 
Some  of  the  people  whose  good  opinion  you 
should  have  valued  and  respected,  refused  to 
read  your  poetry  ;  others  read  it  with  indigna- 
tion, and  others  refused  to  consider  it  seriously 
either  for  good  or  bad,  but  treated  it  with 
broad  humor  and  blunt  wit,  and  your  muse  as 
of  the  opera  bouffe  order. 

Slowly  the  deference  of  the  press  for  you 
has  become  rather  third  class  with  a  tingre  of 
good-natured  contempt  in  it.  The  newspaper 
brethren  like  fine  titles  and  vSecond  names  for 
every  public  character.  They  do  not  permit 
any  Mavericks  on  their  range,  and  like  to  put 
their  own  brand  on  the  herds  they  round  up 
from  far  and  near.  When  you  have  been  in 
their  eye  long  enough  in  one  capacity  they  fix 
a  name  on  you.  So  they  created  the  Sweet 
Singer  of  Michigan,  and  the  Poet  of  the  Sierras. 
To  you  they  gave  the  name  of  Poetess  of 
Passion,  and  joyed  in  its  euphony.     You  have 


A     DEFERRED     CRITICISM         143 

been  one  of  their  Cherry  Sisters,  and  they  have 
accorded  you  a  mock  deference,  thinly  disguised 
as  real.  It  must  be  difficult  some  of  the  time 
to  determine  whether  the  flowers  they  throw  at 
you  are  cabbages  or  roses;  superficially,  they 
might  be  either.  You  can  hardly  get  much  of 
a  review  now,  no  matter  how  burns  the  lava 
tide  of  your  verse.  You  have  become  a  stock 
figure  as  much  as  The  Grand  Old  Man,  or  The 
Langtry  Lily,  and  you  do  not  need  description 
or  explanatory  notes,  or  an  introduction.  Your 
epitomization  is  embodied  in  Poetess  of  Passion. 
But  these  are  horizon  fancies,  and  I  want  to 
look  into  the  near-by  heavens. 

I  have  a  copy  of  your  Red  Book,  called 
Poems  of  Passion.  A  wilder  fancy  than 
mine  would  suggest  that  the  blushing  cover 
was  stirred  by  what  it  covered.  The  preface 
alone  is  worth  all  the  labour  of  reading  the 
book;  it  is  a  delicious  bit  of  egotism  that 
cannot  be  duplicated  anywhere.  In  its  opening 
sentence  you  say : 

Among  the  twelve  hundred  poems  that 
have  emanated  from  my  too-prolific  pen,  there 
are  some  forty  or  fifty  which  treat  entirely 
of  that  emotion  which  has  been  denominated 


144      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

"the  grand  passion  love."  A  few  of  these 
are  of  an  extremely  fiery  character. 
Then  you  proceed  to  state  that  you  had 
issued  a  prior  book  of  verse  from  which  you 
had  omitted  these  fiery  sonnets.  Now  you 
describe  how  you  were  called  to  account  for 
this  most  laudable  expurgation,  thus: 

But  no  sooner  was  the   book  published 

than  letters  of  regret  came  to  me  from  all 

parts  of  the  globe,  asking-  why  this  or  that 

love-poem  was  omitted.     These  regrets  were 

repeated  to  me  by  so  many  people,    that   I 

decided  to  collect  and  issue  these  poems  in  a 

small  volume  to  be  called  Poems  of  Passion. 

This  picture  of  "friends  and  strangers  in 

all  parts  of  the  globe,  "  crying  out    for    their 

loved    ones    among   your   love-poems,    is   more 

affecting  than  authentic.     It  is  impossible  for 

the  healthy  mind  to  even  imagine  their  grief. 

One  would  like  to  see  these  devotees  of  passion  ; 

they  would  doubtless  present  some  curious,  if 

not  instructive   anthropological    studies.     Did 

these     bitter     disappointments     well     up     in 

Thibetan  Polyandry,  or  by  the  Bosphorus,  or 

on  the  shore  of  Great  Salt  Lake,  or  where  that 

other  community  of  Passion  Worshippers  taints 

the   air   of   the   Empire   State?     One  cannot 


A     DEFERRED     CRITICISM         145 

locate  elsewhere,  any  large  collection  of  those 
who  are  ruled  by  Her  of  the  Hydra  Head.  You 
confess  with  strange  pride  to  the  authorship  of 
twelve  hundred  poems.  The  magnitude  of 
your  score  has  tempted  me  to  investigate  other 
poets  to  see  if  they  make  up  your  sum.  Keats 
wrote  fifty  poems,  Hood  seventy-six,  Burns  six 
hundred  and  fifty,  and  Tom  Moore  about  the 
same;  Bryant,  fifty,  Tennyson  about  three 
hundred  and  fifty,  Pope,  one  hundred  and 
sixty,  Wordsworth  about  eight  hundred,  and 
Mrs.  Hemans  two  hundred  and  fifty.  Surely 
these  figures  will  still  further  serve  to  increase 
the  appreciation  3^our  admirers  have  for  your 
poems.  One  may  be  allowed  to  guess  that 
those  admirers  are  found  pretty  exclusively 
among  men  who  have  dealt  in  lumber  or  pork 
with  but  little  time  for  literature.  This  sort 
of  a  business  man  is  apt  to  imagine  that  if  a 
poem  is  not  positively  bad  in  all  ways,  and  if 
the  mere  externals  of  poetry  have  been  attended 
to,  it  is  real  poetry  and  not  a  clever  counterfeit. 
In  the  fruitfulness  of  your  muse  you  excel  all 
the  great  names  of  English  fiterature.  It  may 
possibly  be  said  that  these  figures  are  compiled 
from  merely  published  poems  and  that  there 
are  others  not  published.     If  you  could   have 


146      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

considerately  refrained  in  like  manner  we  should 
not  now  have  twelve  hundred  publicly 
announced  poems.  You  have  evidently  lisped 
in  numbers  for  the  numbers  came,  although 
your  numbers,  unlike  most  of  Pope's  are  of  a 
mathematical-amorous  sort.  This  standard 
compels  us  to  measure  poetical  greatness  as 
certain  loyal  Americans  do  national  greatness — 
as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  barrels  of  pork  and 
bushels  of  wheat.  Thus  our  Western  Muse 
scorns  her  barren  European  sister. 

You  consider  it  necessary  to  explain  some  of 
the  poems  in  this  book  and  to  show  why  they 
were  written,  and  in  doing  this  you  hint,  not 
too  obscurely,  that  they  were  inspired  by  some 
experiences  that  have  come  under  your  own 
observation.  You  also  explain  that  the  most 
amorous  of  these  verses  have  not  so  bad  a 
meaning  as  the  superficial  reader  might  impute 
to  them.  Now  this  explanation  only  accentu- 
ates the  prevalent  suspicion  that  these  poems 
are  irretrievably  bad.  With  delicate  naivete 
you  say  of  one  of  them  : 

Delilah  was  written  and  first  published 
in  1877.  I  had  been  reading-  history  and 
became  stirred  by  the  power  of  such  women 
as   Aspasia  and    Cleopatra  over  such  grand 


A    DEFERRED     CRITICISM         147 

men    as     Antony,     Socrates    and    Pericles. 
Under  the  influence  of  this  feeling-  I  dashed 
off  Delilah^  which  I  meant  to  be  an  expres- 
sion of  the  powerful  fascination  of   such  a 
woman  upon  the  memory  of  a  man,  even  as 
he  neared  the  hour  of  death.     If  the  poem  is 
immoral,  then  the  history  which  inspired  it 
is  immoral.     I  consider  it  my  finest  effort. 
Now  if  this  poem  is  a  good  poem  people 
don't  care  how  you  came  to    write  it.     Your 
fame  is  too  new  and   garish    to    warrant    any 
excessive  curiovsity  on  that  score.     Nor  did  the 
public  need  to  be  told  that  you    "dashed   off 
Delilah.''''     It  is  characteristic   of   the   young 
poet  to  "dash  off"  his  poems  (in  prefaces).    It 
ofives  one  an  air  of  verve  and  fire,  and  careless 
excess   of   power   to    "dash    off"   these  rough 
patterns,    and    makes    one's    muse    like    swift 
Camilla  scour  the  plain.     You  say  that  if  the 
poem  is  immoral,  the  history  that  inspired  it  is 
immoral.    "The  history  that  inspired  it,  " — aye, 
there's    the    rub;    that    history    is    immoral. 
Aspasia  and  Cleopatra  are  not  characters  out 
of  a  Sunday-school  book.     Socrates  was  a  loose 
fish,  and  Pericles  was  no  better  than  he  should 
be,  and  we  must  not  confound  Marc  Antony 
with  Saint  Anthony.     It  may  be  of  no  signifi- 


148      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

cance,  but  I  find  no  poem  in  my  Red  Book 
speaking-  forth  the  woes  of  the  wife  in  these 
ancient  marital  difficulties.  If  Zanthippe  could 
have  her  epic,  it  might  show  how  it  was  that 
she  lost  her  temper  and  became  the  jest  of  the 
centuries  on  account  of  trouble  over  that  woman 
Aspasia.  As  for  Mrs.  Pericles,  she  was 
probably  a  poor  little  mouse  of  a  woman,  living 
a  decent  humble  life,  and  not  worth  comparing 
with  that  grand  creature,  Aspasia — certainly 
not  worth  a  nineteenth  century  poem  of  passion. 
I  think  that  Mrs.  Caesar  and  Mrs.  Antony 
could  tell  us  some  things  if  they  had  a  fit 
chronicler,  either  in  prose  or  verse,  that  would 
demoralize  the  halo  which  poetesses  of  passion 
have  placed  round  the  heads  of  those  "grand 
characters.  "  You  complete  your  confession  as 
to  this  poem  by  stating  that  you  consider  it 
your  '"finest  effort.  "  This  practice  of  battering 
yourself  with  boquets  has  something  so  colos- 
sally  egotistical  about  it,  that  the  critic, 
supposed  to  be  used  to  the  worst  cases,  gasps 
for  breath.  Returning  to  our  text,  I  quote  the 
finest  lines  of  this  finest  effort  of  yours : 

She  smiles — and  in  mad  tiger  fashion, 
As  a  she-tiger  fondles  her  own, 

I  clasp  her  with  fierceness  and  passion, 


A     DEFERRED     CRITICISM         149 

And  kiss  her  with  shudder  and  g-roan. 
And  here  is  some  more  from  Ad  Finem, 
which  you  say  is  another  of  the  poems  which 
have  been  condemned  so  much: 

I  know  in  the  way  that  sins  are  reckoned, 

This  thought  is  a  sin  of  the  deepest  dye; 
But  I  know  too  that  if  an  angel  beckoned, 

Standing-  close  to  the  throne  on  High, 
And  you,  adown  by  the  g-ates  infernal, 

Should  open  your  loving-  arms  and  smile, 
I  would  turn  my  back  on  things  supernal, 
To  lie  on  your  breast  a  little  while, 

To    know    for    an    hour    you    were    mine 
completely — 
Mine  in  body  and  soul,  my  own — 
I  would  bear  unending  tortures  sweetly. 
With  not  a  murmur  and  not  a  moan. 
Another    of    the     Great     Condemned    is 
Communism  and  in  this  you  express  yourself 
thus : 

And  on  nig-hts  like  this  when  my  blood  runs 
riot 
With  the  fever  of  youth  and  its  mad  desires, 
When  my  brain  in  vain  bids  my  heart  be  quiet, 
When  my  breast  seems  the  center  of  lava- 
fires, 


.150      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

Oh,  then  is  the  time  when  most  I  miss  you, 
And  I  swear  by  the  stars,  and  my  soul  and 
say, 
That  I  would  have  you,  and  hold  you,  and 
kiss  you, 
Thoug-h  the  whole  world  stands  in  the  way. 

And  like  Communists,  mad  and  disloyal. 
My  fierce  emotions  roam  out  of  their  lair; 

They  hate  King-  Reason  for  being-  loyal — 

They  would  fire  his  castle  and  burn  him 

there, 

O  love,  they  would  clasp  you,  and  crush  you, 
and  kill  you. 

In  the  insurrection  of  uncontrol; 
Across  the  miles,  does  this  wild  war  thrill  you 

That  is  rag-ing-  in  my  soul. 
As  for  your  Convertion — it  is  so 
Swinburnish,  or  Whitmanish  that  I  desire  not 
to  give  it,  having  what  you  have  not,  a  fear  of 
the  repressive  rules  of  the  United  States  postal 
department  against  aiding  in  the  dissemination 
of  a  certain  kind  of  literature.  In  the  title  to 
this  poem  you  have  stolen  the  very  altar  cloth 
and  dyed  it  scarlet.  Of  what  avail  is  this 
lawless,  wanton,  verse?  It  bears  the  stigmata 
of    mental  debauchery  and  hysteria  and    does 


A     DEFERRED     CRITICISM         151 

not  teach  one  valuable  lesson.  To  the  psycho- 
pathist  it  may  possess  a  curious  scientific 
interest;  but  to  laymen  this  demented  verse  is 
as  abhorrent  as  the  maunderings  of  a  maniac. 
If  it  does  express  the  language  of  a  human 
heart  is  it  not  better  that  that  language  should 
remain  untranslated,  or  at  least  that  it  should 
have  no  such  brutal  translation?  Even  poets 
who  have  compelled  us  to  print  expurgated 
editions  of  their  poetry  do  not  vapour  in  such 
trite  eroticism  as  this.  In  some  instances  Burns 
wrote  for  the  ale-house,  evidently  to  win  the 
applause  of  his  pot-companions;  it  is  vulgar 
enough  too,  but  little  redeemed  by  his  splendid 
ofenius.  But  vou  nowhere  find  him  afflicted  with 
hysteria.  Plain  common  vulgarity  and  coarse- 
ness carries  its  own  antidote  against  harm. 
But  Burns  held  the  sacred  things  sacred  from 
poetical  defilement.  There  is  no  taint  in  these 
lines : 

Thou  ling'ring  star  with  less'ning  ray, 
That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn. 

Again  thou  ushVest  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

*  *  * 

The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 
Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie. 


152      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

My  love  is  like  the  red,  red  rose 

Just  newly  sprung-  in  June. 

*  *  * 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly. 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Never  met,  or  never  parted. 

We  had  n'er  been  broken-hearted. 

*  *  * 

Fare  thee  wee'l  thou  first  and  fairest, 
Fare  thee  wee'l  thou  best  and  dearest. 
Do  you  find  in  the  great  Scottish  poet  of 
the  affections  any  trace  of  that  tigerish  affection 
that  howls  for  its  tiger  mate  through  your 
poems?  Civilized  love  is  not  a  beast  raging 
rampantly  abroad  seeking  w^hom  it  may  devour. 
It  is  not  a  vampire  or  a  vulture  that  claws  and 
tears  and  drinks  warm  blood  on  occasion  It  is 
decent  and  fair  to  look  upon,  and  does  not  say 
to  flaming  youth — Let  virtue  be  as  wax  and 
melt  in  her  own  fire.  It  goes  with  the  bride  in 
her  happy  innocence  to  the  altar  ;  it  guides  and 
purifies  the  mother's  heart  as  she  watches  over 
her  children;  it  makes  the  dullest  and  homeliest 
life,  noble  and  kindly;  it  follows  to  the  end, 
and  through  life's  last  and  greatest  affliction  it 
clings  in  dearest  remembrance  to  the  departed 
spirit  beyond  the  confines  of  the  grave.     It  has 


A     DEFERRED     CRITICISM         153 

no  affinity  for  that  raging-  fever  which  you 
grow  eloquent  over.  The  great  alienists  would 
find  something  familiar  in  your  verse.  For 
such  manifestations  they  have  a  name — Sadism. 
Here  are  some  specimens  of  this  poetic  abandon 
from  the  German  philosopher,  Nietzsche: 

The   splendid   beast  raging  in  its   lust 
after  prey  and  victory.     Do  your  pleasure  ye 
wantons;  roar  for  very  lust  and  wickedness. 
The  path   to  one's   own   heaven  ever   leads 
through  the  voluptousness  of  one's  own  hell. 
How   comes   it  that  I  have   yet  met  no  one 
*     *     *     who  knew   morality  as  a  problem, 
and  this  problem  as  his   personal   distress, 
torment,  voluptousness,  passion? 
You  have  few  noble  words  to  relieve  these 
darker  passages — in  fact  your  other  verse  seems 
but  a  setting  for  them.  Whittier  said  of  Burns: 
And  if  at  times  an  evil  strain. 

To  lawless  love  appealing. 
Broke  in  upon  the  clear  refrain 
Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling, 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear 

No  inward  answer  gaining; 
No  heart  had  I  to  see  or  hear 

The  discord  and  the  staining. 


154      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

This  loving  eulogist  tells  what  every  heart 
must  feel.  The  Burns  of  the  ale-house  was 
also  the  Burns  of  Bonnie  Doon  and  Afton 
Water,  of  the  Cotter's  Hearth,  and  Highland 
Mary.  The  vulgar  line  which  comes  now  and 
then  is  but  a  passing  shadow  cast  lightly  on 
this  shining  gold  of  love  and  honour  and 
plighted  troth,  and  all  the  hearthstone  deities. 
Your  poems  of  peaceful  refuge  are  too  small 
and  too  few  to  give  us  safe  escape  from  the 
surging  riot  that  fills  your  Red  Book.  When 
you  aim  at  a  restful  poem  you  are  bound  to 
make  it  a  thing  of  silly  gush  and  affectation, 
as  like  real  emotion  as  that  depicted  by  the 
painted,  shrill-voiced  belle  of  the  music-hall 
stage.  Lovers  named  Guilo,  Lippo,  Beppo, 
and  Romney,  and  one  by  the  Christian  name 
of  Paul,  are  the  subjects  of  the  lighter  and  less 
gustatory  strokes  of  your  prolific  pen.  Thus 
does  your  muse  make  eyes  at  the  audience 
through  the  paint  and  tinsel : 

Yes,  yes,  I  love  thee,  Guilo;  thee  alone, 
Why  dost  thou  sigh  and  wear  that  face  of 
sorrow? 

So  I  loved  Romney?  Hush  thou  foolish  one — 
I  should  forget  him  wholly,  wouldst  thou  let  me; 


A     DEFERRED     CRITICISM         155 

Or  but  remember  that  his  day  was  done 
From  that  most  supreme  hour  when  first  I 

met  thee. 
And  Paul?     Well,  what  of  Paul?     Paul  had 

blue  eyes, 
And   Romney   gray,    and   thine    are   darkly 

tender. 
One   finds   fresh   feeling-s   under   change  of 

skies — 
A  new  horizon  brings  a  newer  splendour. 
You  play  this  tune  with  variations,  here  is 
another  form : 

Why  art  thou  sad  my  Beppo?     But  last  eve, 
Here  at  my  feet,  thy  dear  head  on  my  breast, 
I  heard  thee  say  thy  heart  would  no   more 

grieve, 
Or  feel  the  old  ennui  and  unrest. 

What  troubles  thee?  Am  I  not  all  thine  own — 
I,  so  long  sought,  so  sighed  for  and  so  dear? 
And  do  I  not  live  but  for  thee  alone? 
Thou   hast   seen   Beppo,    whom  I  loved  last 
year. 

Thou  art  not  first?  Nay,  and  he  who  would  be 
Defeats  his    own    heart's    dearest   purpose 
then. 


156      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

No  surer  truth  was  ever  told  to  thee, 

Who  has  loved  most,  the  best  can  love  ag"ain. 

If  Lippo,  [and  not  he  alone]  has  taug-ht 

The   arts   that   please    thee,    wherefore   art 
thou  sad 

Since  all  my  vast  love-lore  to  thee  is  brought; 

Look  up  and  smile  my  Beppo,  and  be  g"lad. 
This  apish  verse  coined  in  the  cheap  and 
vulgar  similitude  of  Italian  love-making,  soft 
and  langorous,  breathing  of  orange  groves  and 
summer  nights,  with  its  thees  and  thous  put 
in  to  hide  its  verbal  poverty,  must  have  been 
thought  poetry  by  you  or  it  would  not  be  in 
the  Red  Book.  According  to  this,  life  in  order 
to  be  at  its  happiest  must  consist  of  a  quick 
succession  of  casual,  yet  tigerish  love  affairs, 
the  more  the  merrier  and  the  more  the  better. 
This  gospel  may  do  for  the  man-about-town, 
and  for  his  compatriots  in  the  half-world,  but 
it  will  hardly  do  to  bring  up  a  family  on.  This 
verse  looks  easy  and  tempting;  it  fires  your 
critic  into  parodistic  emulation.  Here  are  some 
verses  which  suffer  in  the  same  way,  "tossed 
oflf, ' '  of  course : 

My  Beppo  why  dost  thou  complain, 
Thou  hast  my  this  year's  kisses; 


A    DEFERRED     CRITICISM        157 

Lippo  was  my  last  year's  swain, 
He  took  those  last  year's  blisses. 

Why  task  me  for  a  thing-  forgfot, 
When  this  year  I  am  all  thine  own, 

That  happy  past  remember  not, 

When  me  its  bliss  long-  since  has  flown. 

The  ragbags  of  the  past  disclose 
One  tangled  web  of  silken  skein 

Which  other  hands  than  thine  have  wove, 
But  which  thine  own  must  weave  again. 

Let  loves  be  new  and  ever  range. 

Scorning-  dull  ey'd  Satiety, 
Hunting-  content  in  change  on  change. 
And  pleasure  in  variety. 
And  so  we  take  leave  of  the  Red  Book — a 
book  which  contains  no  reason  for  having  been 
written. 


AMERICAN   NOTES 

IT  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago — for  so 
the  account  should  run  with  us  who  have 

seen  fast  history-making,  that  Dickens 
came  over  the  sea  to  look  at  England's  First- 
born. The  brat  was  lusty,  raw  and  ungainly, 
full  of  strange  oaths,  bumptious,  arrogant  and 
a  braggart.  These  qualities  made  its  parentage 
easily  recognizable,  and  yet  gave  great  offense 
to  its  kinsman.  Being  of  the  same  blood, 
perhaps  he  should  have  treated  the  faults  of 
extreme  youth  more  kindly,  yet  time  softens 
resentments,  and  we  can  now  afford  to  laugh 
over  the  follies  of  our  whelp  age.  He  hurt  our 
feelings  terribly  in  Martin  Chuzzlewit  and 
American  Notes,  yet  despite  the  pain  of 
wounded  vanity  we  took  him  into  favour  again. 
Those  who  loved  him  tried  to  condone  his  guilt 
by  attributing  it  to  British  bull-headedness 
and  ignorance. 

There  is  a  strong  suspicion  now  extant 
that  there  were  Americans  a  few  decades  since, 

158 


I 


AMERICAN       NOTES  159 

who  were  as  narrow,  insular  and  provincial  as 
the  John  Bulls  themselves.  Our  avera^re  is 
better  now,  and  still  we  have  something-  to 
mend.  General  Choke  and  Jefferson  Brick  are 
no  longer  with  us,  but  we  have  their  modifica- 
tions in  the  more  refined,  self-styled  Intense 
American.  He  has  established  the  Thirty- 
second  Degree  of  Americanism,  infested  by  his 
class  alone.  Still,  his  vagaries  are  mild  and 
innocuous.  Sometimes  they  are  manifested  in 
a  desire  to  run  the  American  Flag  up  in  all 
parts  of  the  landvscape,  and  I  have  expected 
that  he  would  eventually  adorn  every  corn-crib 
and  smoke-house  in  the  land  with  it.  He  has 
a  theory  that  the  daily  and  hourly  use  of  the 
Flag  increases  patriotism.  Jacob  with  his 
device  of  the  peeled  twigs  for  increasing  the 
number  of  his  flocks  was  not  more  cunning 
than  our  Professional  Patriot  with  his  devices 
for  increasing  the  number  of  Patriots  in  this 
country.  To  the  American  who  carries  his 
patriotism  in  his  heart  and  not  on  his  sleeve, 
his  country's  flag  tells  more  eloquently  than 
printed  page  or  martial  song,  of  American 
valour — of  brave  men  and  brave  deeds.  If  it 
be  a  standard  scarred  and  torn  in  battle,  the 
whole  earth  holds  no  inspiration  like  it.     But 


160      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

he  does  not  need  the  aid  of  artificial  excitants 
to  make  him  love  his  country  and  her  flag. 

Recently  an  ex-president  has  come  forward 
with  some  new  renditions  of  Flag-Service.  This 
fresh  pattern  of  patriotism  is  announced  by  the 
fortunate  magazine  that  secured  it — at  great 
expense — thus : 

It  was  *  *  *  idea  that  the  stars  and 
stripes  should  float  over  every  school  house 
in  America.  Now  in  a  stirring-  article  he 
carries  the  idea  further  and  shows  why  the 
flag-  should  find  a  place  over  every  fireplace 
in  our  country;  what  it  would  mean  to  future 
generations,  and  why  the  flag  should  appeal 
to  every  woman. 

We  are  further  informed  that  "the  article 
will  rank  with  the  author's  most  eloquent 
public  utterances."  As  much  as  we  respect 
ex-presidents,  we  cannot  avoid  suspicion  that 
this  promised  mine  of  rich  eloquence  has  been 
"salted"  in  the  advertisement.  Commonplace 
at  a  dollar  a  line  is  too  dear,  even  when  it  is  the 
commonplace  of  an  ex-president.  There  are 
living  American  women  who  have  been  taught 
patriotism  in  a  sterner  school  than  the  Great 
American  Kindergarten  for  Women.  They 
cannot  gain  new  inspiration  from  pedagogical 


AMERICAN       NOTES  161 

and  dilettant  patriotism,  addressed  to  a 
magazine  constituency  assumed  to  be  in  its 
milk  teeth.  The  Firesides  are  not  clamouring 
to  be  fed  new  rations  of  spoon-victuals  by 
Eminent  Hands.  This  nursery  employment 
does  not  suggest  a  fit  answer  to  the  common, 
vacuous  query,  "what  shall  we  do  with  our 
ex-presidents?"  Let  us  rather  continue  to 
employ  them  for  periodical  deliverances  of  other 
platitudes  whose  prosperity  lies  in  our  acutely 
adoring  ears. 

With  all  the  decadence  among  the  followers 
of  General  Choke  and  Jefferson  Brick  they  still 
have  a  stifled  sneer  for  the  migratory  American, 
acknowledging  ancestral  fealty  to  the  great 
mother-land  of  nations,  if  he  shall  buy  a  pair 
of  trousers  in  London.  One  of  the  minor 
regulations  of  the  intense  American  is  that  you 
must  not  travel  in  foreign  lands,  or  at  least 
only  do  so  under  apology,  before  you  "have 
seen  all  there  is  to  see  in  your  own  country.  " 
You  must  inspect  the  colorless  waste  between 
Saco  and  Waco  as  a  conditioa  precedent  to 
foreign  travel.  Our  intense  American  may  be 
said  to  be  in  his  richest  vein  when  he  detects 
the  harmless  and  necessary  immigrant  to  these 
shores  bringing  out  the  flag  of  his  native  land 


162      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

on  some  fete  day.  Only  a  call  for  troops  will 
suffice  for  this  treason.  I  do  not  forget  that  I 
first  learned  from  Jefferson  Brick  of  the  Curse 
of  British  gold,  and  how  it  was  being  used  to 
corrupt  the  free  American  electorate.  Originally 
it  was  the  hideous  Cobden  Club  that  was 
distributing  this  gold,  and  thereafter  and  more 
recently  the  Money  Kings  of  Lombard  Street. 
From  this  same  well  of  patriotism  I  learned 
that  before  we  adopt  national  policies  we  ought 
to  find  out  what  England  wants  us  to  do,  and 
then  not  do  it.  Upon  these  activities  the 
bunting  trust  thrives,  and  the  voice  of  our 
hustings  becomes  a  mere  hysterical  echo  of  the 
patriot  cannon  at  Bunker  Hill. 

Since  Dickens  was  with  us  in  1841  many 
things  have  come  to  pass  that  the  Muse  of 
History  with  her  large  disdain  for  trifles  has 
made  no  note  of.  She  only  records  the  big 
events  in  her  tiresome  folios  and  never  descends 
to  chronicling  small  beer.  The  real  life  of 
human  kind  has  been  left  to  gossips  like  Pepys, 
who  have  saved  for  us  the  tattle  of  the  tea 
parties  and  the  coffee  houses.  While  the 
Gibbons  have  been  telling  in  sonorous  phrase 
of  camps  and  courts,  these  humble  chatterers 
have  remained  unemulous,  telling  trifling  tales. 


AMERICAN       NOTES  163 

They  cared  not  a  button  about  the  dress 
parades  of  kings,  nor  were  they  fearsome  of 
posterity.  They  thought  it  important  to  set 
down  what  they  ate  and  drank,  what  they 
wore,  what  physic  they  took  and  how  they 
dressed  themselves  or  quarreled  with  their 
neighbours,  or  amused  themselves  on  yesterday. 
The  trial  of  the  Seven  Bishops  will  not  lack  a 
historian,  but  we  must  look  to  these  gleaners 
of  little  sheaves,  if  we  wish  to  know  what  Hodge 
was  doing,  or  how  'Arry  and  'Arriet  spent  the 
holidays  in  the  English  meadows  in  the  year 
16 — .  There  is  a  suggestion  in  this  for  modest 
chroniclers  of  our  own  time,  who  are  willing  to 
wait  two  hundred  years  for  fame.  As  topics 
for  these  little  histories  I  would  suggest  in 
passing  : 

The  Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Crazy  Quilt. 

The  Age  of  Plush. 

The  Influence  of  Pie  on  National 
Character. 

The  Moral  Aspect  of  Tidies . 

The  Strange  Career  of  the  Pillow  Sham. 

Disquisitions  on  these  subjects,  sagely 
written  would  in  time  become  as  valuable  as 
those  of  the  older  Tattlers  and  Spectators.  I 
consider    My    Lady    Lizzard's     Tucker,     and 


164      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

the  gentle  follies  of  Clarinda  and  Bubalina,  as 
worthy  of  a  memoir  as  the  stilted  performances 
of  a  fat-witted  prime  minister. 

Dickens  saw  us  before  we  had  stolen  Texas 
or  the  Empire  of  the  Golden  Gate  from  poor 
Mexico.  It  was  before  the  Argonauts  of  '49 
had  commenced  to  thread  the  buffalo  trails  over 
the  plains  and  to  hunt  the  passes  of  the 
Sierras.  Our  line  of  expansion  was  into  the 
fever-and-ague  belt  of  the  Mississippi  Valley. 
The  City  of  Eden  in  Martin  Chuzzlewit  was 
undoubtedly  a  much  exaggerated  caricature  of 
the  reality,  just  as  Bumble  the  beadle,  the 
Parish  Workhouse,  or  Doctor  Squeers'  School 
were  exaggerations.  But  in  none  of  these 
would  you  have  the  least  trouble  in  finding  the 
original.  Jefferson  Brick  and  General  Choke 
and  the  New  York  Daily  Sewer  and  the  Rowdy 
Journal,  were  not  all  a  myth.  The  criticism  of 
Dickens  touched  us  where  we  were  most 
sensitive.  We  always  had  an  inner  feeling  that 
slavery  was  an  abomination.  We  dimly  saw 
that  in  its  atrocities  the  fifth  century  lived 
again  and  mocked  at  number  nineteen — the 
great  pharisee  of  the  centuries.  Dickens  came 
from  a  nation  whose  war-ships  had  patrolled 
the  African  coast  in    crushing  the  slave  trade 


AMERICAN       NOTES  165 

when  this  century  was  young.  Through  our 
assertiveness  and  Fourth  of  July  declamation, 
we  must  have  felt  that  our  nation  was  yet 
unripe  and  that  our  morals  might  be  bettered. 
Hence  our  anger  when  the  exposed  nerve  was 
touched  by  our  kinsman. 

Our  jingoes  were  offensive  and  truculent 
and  they  could  smell  the  blood  of  an  English- 
man at  a  considerable  distance,  and  long  for  it. 
They  wreaked  a  ruder  and  more  brutal 
vengeance  on  the  Lion,  than  now,  and  the 
spleen  and  hatred  engendered  by  two  wars  was 
invigorated  by  the  prCvSence  of  the  crippled 
veterans  of  the  Revolution  who  were  disposed 
on  all  Fourth  of  July  platforms.  So  buoyant 
and  joyous  and  obtuse  was  our  national  conceit 
that  we  saw  no  incongruity  in  prating  of  liberty 
and  freedom,  while  we  were  holding  millions  of 
human  beings  in  slavery.  We  furnished  rare 
sport  for  a  satirist  like  Dickens,  who  had  never 
spared  his  own  country  a  deserved  gibe. 

The  genius  which  described  the  Circum- 
locution Office,  the  abuses  of  the  courts,  and 
the  Parish  Workhouses  and  Charity  Schools  of 
England  would  naturally  riot  in  the  wealth  of 
raw  material  found  here.  'Tis  a  vain  task  to 
balance  all  the  gains  and  losses  of  fifty  years. 


166      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

It  must  be  admitted  that  when  Dickens  first 
saw  us  we  were  somewhat  imperfect  in  the  use 
of  the  fork,  and  we  ate  our  meals  with  such 
dispatch  that  one  who  sat  at  meat  more  than 
ten  minutes  was  k)oked  on  as  a  person  of 
sedentary  habits.  We  frescoed  the  floors  in 
public  places  with  tobacco,  and  the  hotel  towel 
was  the  subject  of  frequent  and  acrimonious 
remark.  Pie  was  still  our  national  dish  and 
dominated  all  more  effete  refections  from 
Passamaquaddy  to  Carondelet. 

Life  in  1841  had  some  advantages  however. 
The  Fifth  Empire  of  the  Distended  Hoop  was 
still  in  the  womb  of  Fashion.  Women  did  not 
adorn  their  backs  and  heads  with  the  monstrous 
pads  of  a  later  time.  The  Age  of  Plush  had 
not  yet  arrived.  The  Japanese  gewgaws,  and 
Chinese  decorative  misfits,  the  hand-painted 
china  and  ceramic  fads,  the  hideous  tidies  and 
inflammable  strawstack  lamp  chimneys,  and 
above  all,  the  crazy  quilt,  were  unknown. 
Woman  partook  of  literature  in  those  golden 
days  by  the  simple  method  of  sitting  down  and 
reading  a  book.  She  did  not  pursue  Culture 
with  a  Club,  bristling  with  constitutions  and 
by-laws  and  presidents  and  vice-presidents  and 
boards    of    directors    and    committees   and   a 


I 


AMERICAN       NOTES  167 

general  hurrah  and  whirl  of  parliamentary 
practices.  She  did  not  chastise  the  Tyrant 
Man,  with  the  vigor  recently  shown.  She  did 
tatting,  crocheting  and  penwipers  and  woolly 
dogs.  If  she  was  literary  she  wrote  nice  stories 
for  whatever  magazine  was  the  embryonic 
Ladies'  Home  Journal  oi  the  time.  She  did 
not  "wallow"  in  conventions  and  congresses 
then  as  now.  It  was  a  day  when  the  sepulchral 
Best  Room  was  the  good  housewife's  shrine, 
and  the  what-not  and  the  fair,  round  center- 
table,  were  her  household  gods. 

If  a  reincarnated  Dickens  should  return 
here,  he  might  still  find  some  food  for  satire. 
We  should  probably  accept  his  corrective  offices 
more  kindly  now  in  these  days  of  close  fraterni- 
zation between  the  Lion  and  the  Eagle.  On 
the  way  over  he  would  be  sure  to  meet  a  young 
lady — one  of  Cook's,  from  Cherry  Valley,  111., — 
who  would  pester  him  for  his  autograph.  He 
would  have  to  triple-plate  himself  in  dogged 
British  reticence  to  withstand  the  assaults  of 
our  indefatigable  reporters.  The  Lotos  Club 
or  some  other  club  would  feast  him,  and  smooth 
lawyers  and  well-fed  brokers  of  a  literary  turn, 
would  smother  him  with  after-dinner  adulation. 

In  his  purblind  British  way  he  would  seek 


168      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

to  find  out  something'  about  New  York  politics. 
He  would  see  Piatt  and  Croker  in  their  busy 
whirls  and  would  never  be  able  to  tell  which 
was  which.  Among  other  reflections,  he  would 
conclude  that  this  was  the  Age  of  Woman,  and 
that  this  gentle  metal  was  to  take  its  place  in 
the  social  formation  with  stone  and  gold  and 
iron.  We  have  woman's  magazines  and  news- 
papers, and  woman's  corners,  .and  woman's 
supplements  to  great  dailies,  and  woman's  clubs 
and  conventions  and  congresses,  and  a  woman's 
revision  of  the  Bible,  and  a  religious  cult 
established  by  a  woman,  principally  for  women. 
The  Pilgrim  Mothers  having  been  non- 
progressive in  their  day,  a  movement  has  been 
organized  to  rescue  them  from  obscurity,  and 
to  compel  equal  mention  for  them  with  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers.  We  have  woman  doctors, 
and  lawyers,  and  drummers  and  undertakers. 
We  are  industrously  building  up  a  separate 
literature  for  woman,  strictly  antiseptic  and 
free  from  coarse  rude  things.  Letters  are 
becoming  Bokized — male  and  female  created 
he  them.  Perhaps  the  time  will  come  when 
we  have  sufficiently  segregated  woman  from  the 
great  human  family,  that  it  will  be  considered 
as  improper  for  men  and  women  to  read  each 


AMERICAN       NOTES  169 

other's  literature,  as  it  Is  now  for  them  to  wear 
each  other's  clothes.  The  Expurgated  Novel 
has  appeared,  evidently  censored  by  the  Order 
of  Decayed  Clergymen.  Ladies'  magazines  are 
edited  with  the  camera,  and  the  kodac  is 
mightier  than  the  pen.  The  Genius  of  Tatting 
i^  at  the  helm.  With  all  this  favour  to  The 
Young  Person,  the  newspaper  still  brings  Its 
daily  muck  of  crime  into  our  homes;  although 
but  lately  Dickens'  novels  w^ere  excluded  from 
a  New  England  public  library  as  Immoral. 
Having  once  reaped  so  well  in  our  field  of  folly, 
Dickens,  if  he  could  return  would  get  good 
gleanings  from  the  aftermath  of  that  field. 

But  perhaps  Dickens  would  be  best 
charmed  with  Chicago — behemoth,  biggest 
born  of  cities,  the  chief  shrine  in  the  Gospel  of 
Bigness.  Here,  as  in  all  other  places  where  the 
sole  of  his  un blest  British  feet  should  seek 
rest,  he  would  be  compelled  to  "see  the 
town."  This  rite  of  American  hospitality 
would  not  be  omitted,  either  in  Chicago,  or 
Oshkosh,  Kalamazoo  or  Topeka.  No  matter 
what  the  town  was,  or  how^  little  there  was  to 
see,  he  would  have  to  undergo  this  supreme 
ordeal.  He  would  have  to  go  and  gaze 
admiringly  at   factories    and  shops   and   other 


170      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

monuments  to  civic  pride.  Seeing  the  town  in 
Chicago  would  certainly  embrace  the  stock- 
yards, where  as  the  prideful  native  informs  all 
strangers,  they  kill  a  hog  a  second,  the  year 
round.  The  reporters  would  give  out  that  he 
was  "very  much  impressed  with  Chicago." 
That  is  the  way  in  Chicago;  the  traveler  from 
Mars,  the  New  Zealander,  the  man  from  poor 
old  London,  and  from  poorer  old  New  York,  is 
always  "very  much  impressed"  when  he  reaches 
Chicago. 

If  the  wayfaring  stranger  is  not  apparently 
impressed  offhand  and  at  first  blush,  the  priests 
of  the  Gospel  of  Bigness  have  this  formula  of 
attack.  First  inform  him  that  Chicago  has 
two  millions  of  people,  and  that  fifty  years  ago 
it  was  a  village  of  log  cabins.  This  ought  to 
fetch  him,  but  if  it  fail,  then  refer  to  the 
Chicago  Fire,  and  to  the  New  Chicago  spring- 
ing Phoenix-like  from  its  ashes.  If  he  be  still 
stubborn-kneed,  bring  on  the  Stock  Yards 
with  its  toll  of  death,  or  the  tunnel  under  the 
lake — that  wonder  of  the  world  twenty-five 
years  ago.  If  he  remain  obdurate,  the  new 
thirty  million  dollar  sewer  may  fetch  him.  If 
everything  else  fails,  he  must  succumb  to  the 
World's  Fair.    This  is  Chicago's  chef-d'oeuvre. 


AMERICAN       NOTES  171 

On  this  subject  look  out  for  the  inquisitors,  for 
if  you  have  not  seen  this  wonder,  you  will  have 
meted  to  you  supreme  pity  and  contempt. 
You  will  be  made  to  wish  that  the  Fair  had 
been  swallowed  up  before  you  heard  of  it. 
However,  this  w^ould  not  ease  your  pain,  for 
ever  after  it  would  be  spoken  of  as  the  greatest 
swallowing-up  in  history.  Dickens  would  find 
the  Great  Fire  still  celebrated  with  rejoicings, 
and  lurid  woodcut  flames  in  the  newspapers. 
The  Fire  has  really  lost  all  the  advantages  it 
once  had  as  a  public  calamity,  but  its  fame  for 
Bigness  will  endure  forever.  From  the  Chicago 
point  of  view,  pity  and  contempt  for  New  York 
rises  to  the  sublime;  the  island  city  is  a  mere 
wart  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 

It  is  a  trait  of  municipal  callowness  to  brag. 
London  and  Paris  never  yell  their  brags  at  one 
another.  Their  secure  position  does  not  need 
to  be  continually  asserted.  Let  a  journalistic 
wag  in  New  York  fling  a  grotesque  gibe  at 
Chicago  and  she  arises  in  majesty  and  pours 
vitriol  on  her  decrepit  rival.  I  quote  from 
memory  a  waggish  leader  on  Chicago  that 
appeared  in  a  New  York  paper : 

As  you  approach  Chicago,  she  becomes 
foully   manifest   by   a   dull,   livid  cloud  that 


172      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

obscui'es  the  sky.  You  burst  into  this 
mephitic  drapery,  feeling-  as  though  you  had 
tumbled  into  a  sewer.  *  *  *  It  is  a  common 
thing-  to  see  her  merchant  princes  in  their 
shirt  sleeves  sitting-  on  the  front  porches  of 
their  palatial  homes  enjoying-  an  evening- 
smoke.  *  *  *  The  knife-swallowing  act 
can  still  be  seen  at  the  hotels.  The  Gent 
flourishes  in  Chicago — it  is  his  natural  home. 
Few  Chicago  families  have  grandparents; 
they  cannot  afford  to. 

The  Home  Guards  in  Chicago  took  this 
waggery  seriously.  They  asserted  that  Chicago 
was  as  good  as  anybody,  and  that  her  pedigree, 
sanitation  and  manners  were  A.  1. 

These  are  the  reflections  of  new  readings 
of  American  Notes.  If  Dickens  could  come 
again,  he  would  find  a  nation  mellowed  and 
ripened  with  the  years.  He  would  find  that 
the  old  order  had  given  way  to  the  new.  He 
would  find  cities  provincial  and  rustic  then, 
cosmopolitan  now.  He  would  find  a  national 
life  and  ambition  broad  and  catholic,  not 
narrow  and  jealous.  He  would  find  a  nation 
that  remembers  slavery  as  a  horrible  dream  is 
remembered  in  the  clear  light  of  mid-noon,  a 
nation  purified  by  war,  and  the  long,  smoulder- 


AMERICAN       NOTES  173 

ing  embers  of  that  war,  dead  and  lifeless.  He 
would  find  us  able  to  laugh  at  the  follies  and 
vices  he  mocked.  He  would  find  the  great 
republic  of  the  west  living  in  happy  amity  with 
its  mother  land,  the  old  hatreds  and  bickerings 
gone  forever. 


AMERICANISM   IN   LITEBfATURE. 

THE  critic  who  ventures  discussion  of 
American  literature,  risks  an  encounter 
with  the  Intense  American.  The  jurisdic- 
tion of  this  national  policeman  is  to  see  that 
the  patriotism  of  his  countrymen  suffers  no 
diminution  or  abatement.  Of  late  he  has  paid 
some  attention  to  the  literary  part  of  his 
authority.  He  insists  on  running  the  American 
Flag  up  in  the  library,  as  a  lighthing  rod  to 
protect  American  authors  from  any  chance 
thunderbolts  of  criticism.  The  British  critic  is 
especially  warned  to  keep  off  the  green  growth 
of  American  letters.  Our  watchman's  oath  of 
allegiance  to  American  authors,  excludes  loyalty 
to  all  others,  and  so  he  becomes  an  uncomfort- 
able and  uncompromising  person.  I  have  long 
wanted  to  criticise  Longfellow  for  the  didactic 
character  of  some  of  his  poems,  and  the  ticketed 
and  labeled  moral  that  is  so  often  intruded.  A 
good  tale  is  often  spoiled  by  the  intrusive  moral. 
If  it  were  not  rank  treason  I  would  like  to  say 

174 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE        175 

that  Hiawatha  as  a  poem  is  partly  spoiled 
because  of  its  form  as  a  long  monotonous  chant 
in  which  the  refrain  of  the  unvariant  lines  is 
early  worn  out,  and  thenceforth  becomes  a 
weariness.  We  learn  from  the  Intense  American 
that  some  of  our  authors  have  Intense  Ameri- 
canism; that  Bryant  was  a  "thorough 
American,"  and  that  a  "spirit  of  True 
Americanism  breathes  in  Longfellow."  These 
awe-inspiring  terms  not  being  defined,  we  may 
take  them  to  be  simply  an  exercise  in  phrase- 
mongering. 

Perhaps  after  all,  this  True,  this 
Thorough,  this  Intense  Americanism,  is  only 
a  State  of  Mind,  in  which  Patriotism  uplifts 
itself  into  a  seventh  heaven  by  simply  tugging 
at  its  boot-straps.  The  vocabulary  of  uncritical 
adulation  in  Europe  does  not  seem  to  have  an 
equivalent  term.  He  would  be  a  daring  idolator 
indeed  who  should  insist  that  Dickens,  or 
Thackeray,  or  Reade  were  gifted  with  Intense 
Britishism,  for  they  committed  many  treasons 
by  attacking  every  British  institution  from  the 
House  of  Lords  down  to  the  dinners  of  snobs. 
It  is  difficult  to  discover  that  Cervantes  had 
True  Castileanism,  or  Plato  True  Greeceianism, 
or  Dante  True  Italianism.     Our  own  Brander 


176      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

Mathews  has  set  us  some  lessons  in  literary 
patriotism,  the  humour  of  which  seems  uncon- 
scious on  his  part.  Thus  does  he  warn  youngest 
readers  against  the  deadly  snare  of  British 
literature : 

It    cannot     be    said    too    often    or    too 
emphatically  that  the  British  are  foreig^ners, 
and  that  their  ideals  in  life,  in  literature,  in 
politics,  in  taste,  in  art,  are  not  our  ideals. 
From  this  author  we  also  learn  that  it  is: 
In      consequence     of     the      wholesome 
Americanism   imparted  in  the  school  room, 
that  American  boys  and  girls  have  increased 
their  demand  for  American  books. 
Foolish    Americans    have  always   had  the 
same  weakness  for  foreign  authors,  that  they 
have   for   foreign    goods,    and    this    unnatural 
appetite  must  be  checked  by  authority.     The 
sad  admission  must  be  made  that  it  is  too  late 
to  put  a  tariff  on  British  brains — the  serpent 
has   already  crept  in.     The  Dogberrys  of  our 
literary    police  will  call  out  in  the  street,    but 
despite    their   warnings,    vagrom    Englishmen 
will  to  some  extent  still  commit  breaches  of  our 
peace  in  prose  and  verse.     I  refuse  to  thrill  over 
the  spectacle  of  the  American  Youth  becoming 
so   infected    with   True   Americanism    of    the 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE        177 

Brander  Mathews  kind  that  he  rapidl}^  turns 
to  American  authors.  If  there  is  any  one 
primal  and  unchanging  element  in  the  character 
of  the  American  Youth,  it  is  his  disregard  of 
the  authors  who  write  his  books.  Nor  does  he 
care  very  much  about  the  exact  locus  in  quo 
of  his  fiction.  Robi?ison  Crusoe,  The  Swiss 
Family  Robinson,  and  Totn  Brown,  mean 
just  as  much  to  an  American  boy  as  to  an 
English  boy.  Such  books  have  no  nationality; 
they  are  written  for  the  universal  boy.  For  like 
reasons  the  Eton  boy  could  gloat  over  Tom 
Sawyer  and  Huckleberry  Finn,  without 
disloyalty  to  the  Crown. 

So  many  of  us  Yankees  are  Jacobites  at 
heart,  drinking  secretly  to  the  king  over  the 
water;  we  find  creative  genius  where  we  can, 
undeterred  by  the  True  American.  Our  nation 
drones  through  one  generation  in  deadly  peace, 
hearing  no  sound  but  that  of  mill  and  loom, 
and  the  pleasant  tinkle  of  little  verses.  No 
minstrel  of  our  own  breaks  the  silence,  but 
from  across  the  seas  comes  a  strain  of  daring 
music  from  England's  new  singer.  The 
majestic  Recessional  has  set  her  heart  afire  and 
made  us  wish  that  heaven  w^ould  send  us  such 
a    poet.      This    poem    would    have    an    equal 


178      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

appeal  for  the  Pharaohs,  for  Moses  and  Aaron, 
for  the  nations  of  later  times,  that  grow 
drunken  with  power.  It  has  the  measured 
majesty  of  the  speech  of  the  prophets  when 
they  foretold  the  doom  of  nations.  It  is  a  lost 
fragment  from  Jeremiah  or  Isaiah.  It  has  a 
Scriptural  eloquence,  sonorous,  uplifting,  called 
from  the  clearer  hill-tops  to  the  valleys  below. 
It  is  a  battle  hymn  and  also  a  hymn  of  peace 
for  the  time  when  battles  are  over.  It  seems 
to  close  the  century  with  the  sound  we  have 
been  listening  for.  This  singer  surely  does 
not  belong  to  the  puddering  rout  of  birth-day 
ode-makers  who  periodically  sing  lullabys  to  the 
English  people.  Perhaps  he  stole  his  fire  from 
strange  lands  where  he  wandered,  loving  every 
spot  where  there  was  a  man  alive.  Was  there 
some  alchemy  in  the  branding  Indian  sun  that 
made  his  soul  great  so  that  he  could  stand 
stern-browed  at  England's  jubilee  and  tell  her 
in  Homeric  verse  that  all  her  pomp  was  one 
with  Nineveh  and  Tyre?  This  psalm  is  his 
title  deed  to  Westminster.  None  but  he  could 
smite  the  chords  with  might,  as  there  was  but 
one  in  that  heroic  test  of  long  ago,  who  could 
bend  the  great  bow  of  Ulysses  and  make  the 
string  "sound  sweetly  as  the  swallow's  song." 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE         179 

The   lines    of   Coleridge   seem    meant  for  this 
music: 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 

Now  like  a  lonely  flute; 
And  now  it  is  an  ang-el's  song- 

That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

We  would  like  to  feel  that  he  owed  some 
debt  to  New  England,  where  he  tarried  awhile, 
but  it  is  plain  that  he  is  English  to  the  core,  a 
child  of  the  Thames,  and  not  of  the  Ganges  or 
the  Merrimac.  A  little  later  when  our  ambi- 
tion was  leaping  ocean  barriers  he  sobered  us 
by  telling  how  basely  or  how  nobly  we  might 
bear  The  White  Man's  Burden. 

Shall  we  shut  any  part  of  this  inspiration 
from  our  ears  because  it  did  not  come  from  the 
banks  of  the  Hudson  or  the  Mississippi? 
Could  our  army  of  flag-wavers  with  their 
artificial  devices  for  manufacturing  artificial 
patriotism,  so  move  a  great  race?  Meanwhile 
Brander  Mathews  and  his  constabulary  will 
continue  to  pick  their  flints  and  fight  Bunker 
Hill  over  again  against  the  British  invader. 

The  even-blooded  American  who  does  not 
care  whether  an  author  has  the  ingredient  of 
True  Americanism  in  his  inkwell  or  not,  will 
still  claim  free  trade  rights   with  British  litera- 


180      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

ture.  Perhaps  this  weakness  of  Intense 
Americanism  is  responsible  for  the  belief, 
current  in  certain  quarters  that  A  Man  With- 
out a  Country,  is  a  great  romance.  This 
patriotic  sermon — this  high  class  Fourth  of 
July  oration  has  been  given  the  title  of  the 
Great  American  Story.  It  is  really  quite  inter- 
esting and  instructive  for  fifteen-year-olds.  It 
is  the  history  of  a  youth,  who  in  a  moment  of 
silly  pique,  being  nagged  by  his  captors,  said 
that  he  wished  he  might  never  hear  of  the 
United  States  again.  This  was  only  the  bitter 
froth  of  his  real  sin,  for  he  had  intrigued  with 
Aaron  Burr  against  his  country,  and  that 
fascinating  traitor  had  woven  him  tight  in  his 
web.  The  Powers-That-Be  could  forgive  the 
real  treason,  and  let  the  head  traitor  go  free, 
but  they  could  not  forgive  the  boy's  petulant 
lack  of  lip  service.  So  they  sent  him  on  the  high 
seas,  where  he  wandered  for  many  weary  years  a 
remorseful  derelict,  and  by  great  command  he 
was  never  to  hear  his  country  spoken  of.  They 
adopted  towards  him  an  Americanized  version 
of  the  punishment  of  the  Wandering  Jew  and 
of  Tantalus,  until  old  age  came  and  death 
relieved  him  of  his  pain.  This  a  pretty  story 
with  a  moral  as  obvious  as  a  mountain.    Later 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE        181 

editions  of  it  are  spoiled  somewhat  by  the 
eo^otism  of  authorship,  which  impels  Mr.  Hale 
to  explain  that  it  is  a  myth,  and  his  reasons 
for  writing  it  and  all  about  the  lesson  that  it 
teaches.  But  the  moral  somewhat  loses  its 
flavour  with  the  callow^est  youth,  w  hen  he  sees 
around  him  many  patriots  who  wave  the  Old 
Flag-  with  one  hand  w^hile  they  reach  for  a  fat 
appropriation  or  a  swindling  government 
contract  with  the  other.  Aaron  Burr  at  least 
did  not  buy  legislatures  and  boards  of  aldermen. 

The  moral  seems  to  be  superficially,  that 
to  be  immune,  you  need  only  shape  your 
schemes  for  the  destruction  of  the  institutions 
of  your  country  to  the  prevailing  fashion.  You 
can  then  found  an  orphan  asylum  or  a  great 
university,  and  the  bats  will  fly  off  as  you  go  by. 

All  this  may  be  thought  a  by-path  from 
books,  but  human  life  is  stretched  along  the  by- 
wavs  as  well  as  along  the  main  traveled  roads. 
This  preface  brings  to  mind  some  Americans 
who  have  not  made  a  strutting  parade  of  their 
patriotism.  In  example  of  this  we  have  such 
Americans  as  Lowell,  whose  patriotism  and 
love  of  country  had  no  dross  upon  it;  whose 
scholarship  was  as  broad  and  generous  as  the 
seas  that  wash  our  shores;  who  never  penned 


182      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

provincial  and  rustic  cant  about  True 
Americanism ;  who  loved  books  as  a  man  and 
not  as  an  American,  and  who  could  love  a  book 
neither  more  nor  less  because  of  the  nationality 
of  the  author;  who  held  close  fellowship  with 
the  great  of  every  land  without  a  thought  that 
it  made  him  any  the  less  an  American.  With 
him  the  world  of  letters  had  no  narrowing 
partition  lines  that  could  separate  Shakespeare, 
Cervantes  and  Moliere  from  Hawthorne  and 
Poe  and  Emerson  and  make  one  less  than  the 
other.  The  dead  who  sleep  at  Westminster 
were  his  blood  brothers.  With  him  we  can 
safely  place  Irving,  Hawthorne,  Poe  and 
Holmes.  The  fame  of  these  rests  on  their 
genius  and  not  on  the  accident  of  nationality. 
The  many  influences  that  may  have  somewhat 
dwarfed  American  scholarship,  have  not 
modified  Lowell's  genius.  He  would  have 
honoured  any  land.  As  a  poet  and  essayist 
he  had  a  ripened  wit  and  learning  that  places 
him  as  the  first  of  American  scholars.  He  had 
a  broader  and  more  varied  scholarship  than 
either  Holmes  or  Emerson.  He  entered  into 
the  death  grapple  with  slavery  with  a  stern 
and  knightly  courage  and  ardour  that  never 
swerved    or    turned    aside.      His    words    were 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURK         183 

"battles  for  freedom,"  when  freedom  most 
needed  defenders.  He  was  the  peer  of  En^rland's 
greatest  scholars,  and  his  fame  will  brighten 
with  the  years. 

New  soils  do  not  always  fatten  genius.  In 
a  new  land  the  activities  of  the  people  are 
expended  in  subduing  the  wilderness,  in 
building  great  cities,  and  in  developing  material 
resources.  With  this  justification  it  should  be 
no  blemish  on  our  patriotism  that  we  esteem 
Tennyson  as  greater  than  Longfellow,  and 
Scott  than  Cooper.  It  should  not  shame  us 
that  we  find  a  richer,  deeper  tone  in  Caledonia 
and  Bannockburn,  and  that  they  crowd  so 
closely  in  our  affections  the  songs  of  our  own 
lands.  We  have  much  didactic  verse  and  dainty 
verse  and  here  and  there  an  anthem  full  of 
power,  but  few  of  our  poets  have  put  such 
inspirations  into  verse  as  Scott,  and  Tennyson, 
Burns,  and  Kipling.  It  may  be  that  Columbia 
lingers  too  long  in  the  market  place  listening  to 
the  music  of  the  ticker  and  the  song  of  the 
stockjobber,  forgetting  the  dreams  and  inspira- 
tions that  can  alone  make  her  children  great. 

Is  it  not  a  question  whether  our  battle 
hymn  has  yet  been  written?  Yankee  Doodle 
is  a  silly  jingle;    The  Star  Spangled  Banner 


184      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

is    of   limited   compass,    Marching    Through 

Georgia,  and  some  other  war  songs  are  a  mere 

matter  of  music  without  fit  words,  and  besides 

they  cannot  be  as  well  sung  in  Georgia  as  in 

Wisconsin.     Few  of  our  patriotic  songs  will  be 

long  remembered  ailthough  they  are  dressed  in 

stirring  music  for  the  mob.     They  have  but  a 

spark    of    that    immortal    fire   that    blazes  in 

Kipling's  latest  verse,   or  in  Tennyson's  epic, 

the  battle  of  the  one  against    the   fifty-three. 

Our  Spanish  War  has  no  poet,  although  it  has 

inflicted  upon  us  any  amount  of  doggerel  and 

raphsodical  music.     There  was  no  residium  of 

verse  after  our  war  of  1812,   and  the  Mexican 

war  was  not  provocative  of  poetry.     Perhaps 

the    American    Muse    was    ashamed    of    that 

conquest    and    remained    silent    even    over  the 

glories  of  Chapultepec  and   Monterey.     I  had 

almost  forgotten  a  song  however,    with   some 

fine  lines  in  it  written  by  one  Hoffman : 

We  were  not  many,  we  who  pressed 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day; 

But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 

He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 

Then  not  have  been  at  Monterey. 

This  seems  to  be  the  solitary  poet  of  the 

Mexican  War.     Who  hath  remembrance  of  him 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE        185 

now?  In  our  first  struggle  for  freedom,  no 
Koernor  turned  the  soldier's  barracks  into 
temples  where  liberty  was  deified  in  song.  The 
battle  against  slavery  called  out  some  stormy 
verse,  yet  how  little  we  now  remember  of  the 
scathing  passion,  the  tender,  burning  words, 
that  Whittier  and  Longfellow  breathed  over 
the  wrongs  of  our  bondmen.  Some  of  our 
jewels  it  is  true  are  covered  with  later  rubbish. 
Like  a  dimly  remembered  song  heard  in  remote 
childhood  is  that  eloquent  fragment  of 
Emerson's  commencing: 

By  the  rude  bridg-e  that  arched  the  flood. 

Joaquin  Miller's  Song  of  Peace  is  not  half 
so  well  known  as  the  Recessional.  We  seem 
to  miss  the  nearer  music  and  remember  best 
the  rival  lines  of  Scott  and  Burns  and  Kipling. 

Upon  what  meat  do  these  islanders  feed 
that  they  have  such  power  to  charm  us  with 
their  songs,,  and  make  us  forget  old  wrongs, 
old  feuds  and  old  battles?  It  may  be  their 
ocean  empire  with  its  outposts  on  every  main. 
The  declamations  of  our  schoolboys  bind  the 
race  together  and  annul  the  bitterness  sown  by 
politicians.  When  we  turn  from  the  American 
poet  to  his  Engfish  fikeness  we  are  apt  to  find 
an  enlarged  edition. 


186      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

Whittier's  poetry  is  a  crystal  winding 
brook,  reflecting  summer  days  and  moonlit 
nights,  and  the  leaf  and  flower  of  forest  and 
meadow.  But  Tennyson's  verse  is  a  river 
running  in  stormier  measure,  and  mirroring  a 
larger  life.  Nature  has  dealt  kindly  with  us; 
she  has  given  us  sunnier  days  and  mightier 
lakes  and  rivers,  but  in  partial  mood  she  has 
added  an  Attic  savour  to  the  wind  that  blows 
across  the  island  kingdom  that  our  more  arid 
breezes  have  not.  The  Mississippi  Valley  lacks 
several  things  to  make  it  a  place  of  poetic 
inspiration.  Its  mountain  fringes  lie  a  thousand 
miles  apart  with  a  flat  between.  It  has  no 
ruins,  no  traditions,  no  history  except  the  new 
and  yeasty  product  begun  since  our  possession 
of  it.  Very  early,  no  doubt  the  human  family 
sent  out  some  meager  outposts  to  this  continent. 
A  thousand  generations  have  since  flitted 
through  its  forests,  yet  they  have  died  like  the 
cave  bear  and  made  no  sign.  Their  literary 
remains  consist  in  a  few  attenuated  traditions. 
Even  Cooper's  book,  or  artificial  Indian  could 
furnish  no  theme  for  the  poet.  Longfellow 
tried  to  fuse  this  stubborn  personality  of  the 
Red  Brother  into  song,  with  something  of  a 
success  considering  the  material,  but  the  form 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE        187 

of  his  verse  is  a  long,  oft-repeated  chant,  with 
the  monotonous  rhythm  of  the  prayer-drums  at 
a  Chippewa  corn  dance.  At  such  a  festival, 
the  prayer-drums  booming  through  the  wilder- 
ness, typify  the  Indian  character.  It  is  an 
unchanging,  ceaseless  roll  that  carries  with  it 
the  somber  unchanging  history  of  the  race.  It 
has  no  vital,  living  music  in  it.  It  belongs  to 
and  is  a  part  of  the  unchanging  forests  and 
prairies,  and  the  endless  flow  of  lonely  streams 
where  nature  broods  alone  over  her  own  and 
all  things  remain  as  in  the  first  day.  Centuries 
of  silence  and  shadow  have  passed  over  this 
race,  and  yet  its  history  can  be  read  in  a  few 
scattered  arrow  heads.  Such  a  people  could 
not  fatten  a  soil  with  legend  and  story. 

I  fancy  Scott  and  Burns  would  have  sung 
no  songs  had  they  been  born  on  Bark  River 
Flats,  their  only  indigenous  inspirations  an 
occasional  flint  spear  point,  or  an  ancient  Indian 
trail  blazed  through  the  forest.  They  owed  all 
to  the  mountains  of  Scotland,  her  heathery 
hills  and  moors,  her  tarns  and  brooks  peopled 
with  the  legends  of  men  outworn.  For  them  a 
thousand  rude  singers  from  the  cave-man  down 
had  been  building  a  rich  alluvium  of  romance 
and  story.     In  such  a  soil  poets  grow  spontan- 


188      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

eously  and  involuntarily.  Poetry  is  an  exotic 
in  a  flat  country  and  not  of  natural  growth. 
Mountains  have  always  been  a  great  boon  to 
letters;  the  gods  dwelt  on  a  mountain,  and 
the  muses  on  a  high  hill.  The  level  plains  and 
flat  surfaces  of  earth  have  always  been  the 
abode  of  cattle  herders  and  uninspired  men. 
Burns  was  not  a  sudden  creation  ;  his  poetry 
was  in  the  nature  of  inherited  wealth.  He  was 
the  heir  of  many  singers,  and  all  the  currents 
of  Scottish  poetry  from  the  earliest  times 
converged  in  him.     Whittier  says: 

I  saw  the  same  blithe  day  return. 
The  same  sweet  fall  of  even. 

That  rose  on  Wooded  Crag-ie-burn, 
And  sank  on  Crystal  Devon. 

I  matched  with  Scotland's  heathery  hills 

The  sweetbriar  and  the  clover. 
With  Ayr  and  Doon  my  native  rills 

Their  wood-hymns  chanting  over. 

Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time. 

So  Bonny  Doon  but  tarry, 
Blot  out  the  epic's  stately  rhyme. 

But  spare  his  Highland  Mary. 
Whittier  wrote  some  of  the  sweetest  minor 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE        189 

poetry  in  our  language,  but  he  could  not 
transplant  to  the  banks  of  the  Susquehanna, 
or  the  Connecticut,  the  ruined  castle  of  Scotland 
with  its  thousand-year-old  volume  of  human 
life,  or  the  myriad  legends  that  throng  the 
banks  of  the  Doon  and  the  Ayr.  His  song  to 
Burns  is  a  tribute  to  the  richer  life,  to  the 
deeper  power  and  passion  of  Scotland's  poet. 
It  is  the  generous  tribute  of  a  poet  who  stands 
in  a  new  land  barren  of  tradition,  to  the  land 
hoary  with  age  and  recorded  legend. 

In  our  first  half-century  we  had  great 
soldiers  and  orators  and  statesmen,  but  the 
crop  of  letters  was  scanty.  There  must  have 
been  many  unsung  Odysseys  in  the  lives  of 
those  hardy  adventurers  who  came  with  Raleigh 
and  Smith,  and  whose  descendants  later  drifted 
down  the  Ohio  and  the  Mississippi  and  over 
the  plains,  driving  the  Indian  and  the  bufiFalo 
before  them.  But  we  had  no  Homers  to  put 
this  pioneer  wonder-land  into  verse.  Life  was 
too  stern  and  exacting  and  pitched  in  too 
intense  a  key,  so  we  built  literature  slowly  in 
our  pioneer  age.  This  early  poverty  had  its 
effect  on  the  really  great  builders  like  Longfellow 
and  Cooper,  who  came  later. 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES 


JOHN   MARSHALL   AND   HIS   TIMES 

IT  is  now  more  than  sixty  years  since  the 
death    of    John    Marshall,     yet    each 

recurring  year  brings  for  his  character  some 
new  praise.  The  danger  that  confronts  the 
eulogist  of  this  eminent  American  is  that  of 
falling  into  the  weak  commonplace  of  conven- 
tional biography.  It  is  not  with  such  trite 
praise  that  we  best  remember  him.  We  appoint 
this  day  for  his  remembrance;  we  turn  again 
to  his  life  and  work,  to  the  written  page  where 
his  toil  and  genius  stand  recorded ;  we  adjure 
the  younger  men  of  our  generation  to  consider 
his  character  anew,  and  to  take  guidance  from 
him  as  the  greatest  and  worthiest  example 
which  our  profession  has  given  them.  So  we 
frame  his  eulogy  more  earnestly  than  by  ordered 
and  studied  speech. 

The  lives  of  many  of  those  who  have  made 
a  considerable  figure  in  history  need  at  least  a 
century  of  perspective,  for  no  nearer  judgment 
avails    to    properly    place   them.     Such   is  the 

193 


194      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

force  of  habit  and  suggestion  that  the  claims 
of  restless  Mediocrity,  espoused  by  the  foolish 
and  thoughtless,  fret  and  hamper  us  long  after 
our  better  judgment  has  pronounced  its 
condemnation.  Dr.  Johnson  once  said:  "It 
is  wonderful,  sir,  with  how  little  real  superiority 
of  mind  men  can  make  an  eminent  figure  in 
public."  Many  modern  instances  prove  the 
truth  of  this  observation.  Often  the  quack  and 
the  mountebank  are  unmasked  only  after  death 
has  been  long  in  the  enjoyment  of  its  mortal 
reversion.  Some  fames  suffer  so  much  diminu- 
tion in  Time's  winnowing  that  we  are  taught 
not  to  trust  the  biographers  overmuch.  We 
finally  come  to  know  many  of  them  for  what 
they  are, — masters  of  fiction,  high  priests  of 
humbug,  cant,  and  palaver,  their  gospel  that 
of  the  little,  their  creed  that  of  triviality.  They 
form  the  donkey  chorus  in  the  drama  of  history; 
they  weave  haloes  for  smug  Mediocrity,  and 
pretentious  Dullness  owes  them  all  its  bays. 
They  are  the  valets  of  deified  shams,  dressing 
them  in  the  lion's  hide;  they  are  mere  tailors 
of  historical  figures  with  a  plentiful  supply  of 
padding.  They  artistically  conceal  this  blemish 
and  that  deformity;  they  accentuate  every 
trifling  advantage,  and  virtues  and  traits  which 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      195 

are  but  commonplace  they  adorn  so  that  they 
shall  appear  grand  and  stately.  They  are 
courtiers,  bowing  low  before  kings  of  shreds 
and  patches.  They  first  ostentatiously  ask, 
"what  is  truth?  "  And  then  make  no  search 
for  an  answer,  but  hunt  up  and  mass  together 
as  many  tawdry  falsehoods  as  will  vserve  their 
turn,  and  call  their  work, — Biography.  So  it 
happens  that  the  accidents  of  birth  who  become 
kings  and  the  accidents  of  politics  who  many 
times  become  presidents  or  otherwise  achieve 
great  place  are  largely  tailor-made. 

The  courtiers  of  the  bed-chamber  who 
were  graciously  permitted  to  look  on  while  the 
king  of  France  awoke  from  his  morning  slumbers 
and  made  his  toilet,  were  so  overawed  by  the 
divine  condescension  that  they  saw  nothing 
vulgar  or  grotesque  in  the  ceremony;  the  king 
in  his  night-gear  was  as  awful  and  majestic 
to  them  as  the  king  in  ermine.  For  in  the 
biographical  circles  of  kings  and  rulers,  the 
sense  of  humour  stands  in  arrested  development. 
Our  biographers  who  write  "Lives,"  of 
presidents  and  of  temporary  notables  are 
unconscious  purveyors  of  exquisite  satire.  They 
spare  neither  age  nor  youth  in  their  idol-making 
task.     The  real  boy,  fated  to  be  president  or 


196      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

to  command  listening  senates  probably  stole 
melons,  played  truant,  fought  with  his  mates, 
and  passed  through  the  silly  season  of 
hobbledehoyhood  as  other  boys.  But  the 
biographer  takes  this  boy  in  hand  and  he 
emerges  a  different  being.  In  his  bright  and 
ornate  lexicon  the  melon  episode  is  surrounded 
by  all  the  glamour  which  fiction  attaches  to 
the  slightly  irregular  performances  of  Robin 
Hood ;  the  boy-battles  grow  from  mere  heated 
discussion  over  a  strenuous  game  of  marbles,  to 
avengements  of  wrong  and  injustice  worthy  of 
Sir  Galahad.  If  this  boy,  in  training  for  fame, 
is  called  on  to  perform  the  plain  duty  of  telling 
who  stole  the  jam,  any  finesse  in  statement  on 
his  part,  gives  clear  promise  of  the  future 
Talleyrand,  or  the  eminent  lawyer.  The  tallow 
dip  by  which  he  breathlessly  devours  yellow- 
backed  fiction  becomes  a  sacred  flame  in  the 
light  of  which  he  hangs  enamoured  over  Horace 
and  Homer.  When  the  tailors  are  through 
with  this  book,  or  artificial  boy,  his  own  mother 
would  not  know  him.  Consider  him  also  in 
biography,  grown  to  manhood,  and  his  kindred 
and  all  his  belongings.  The  faithful  kodac  of 
the  biographer  is  turned  upon  his  ox  and  his 
ass,  his  horse  and  his  dog,    his   children,    his 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      197 

wife  and  his  remote  ancestors.  The  latter  are 
dragged  from  their  forgotten  graves  and  made 
to  give  prophecy  of  the  greatness  of  their 
illustrious  descendant.  His  children  andgrand- 
children  are  ennobled,  and  compared  vi^ith  them, 
Little  Lord  Fauntleroy  would  be  a  mere  street 
gamin.  Innumerable  helpless  infants,  and  even 
horses  and  dogs  are  cursed  and  weighted  with 
his  name.  The  courtiers  of  the  bed-chamber 
chronicle  him  going  and  coming,  rising  up  and 
lying  down,  eating  and  drinking,  and  thinking 
— even  when  of  this  last  there  is  no  visible 
evidence.  His  wife  is  always  the  queenliest  of 
her  sex  and  has  poems  dedicated  to  her  in 
her  own  right.  If  she  warm  his  slippers  or 
administer  to  his  wants  in  sickness,  Genial 
Jenkins  a-tiptoe  at  the  door,  writes  himself 
awe-striken  at  this  instance  of  wifely  devotion. 
Worst  of  all,  the  easy  commonplaces  of  the 
Exalted  One  become  pearls  of  great  price,  and 
are  published  as  Gems  of  Thought.  Such  is 
biography  as  it  is  written.  Macauley's  New 
Zealander  who  is  to  sit  on  London  Bridge  and 
gaze  on  the  ruins  of  St.  Paul's,  will,  if  he  fare  far 
enough,  inspect  the  ruins  of  our  ex-presidents 
and  ex-statesmen,  and  give  to  a  distant  age  the 
benefit  of  much  valuable  rumination. 


198      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

While  biographers  thus  elevate  men  of  little 
consequence,  they  often  do  what  they  can  to 
spoil  the  fame  of  really  great  men,  by  servile 
adulation  and  a  surfeit  of  superlatives.  Every 
hero  is  bound  to  have  a  Bosvvell  to  make  him 
appear  both  excessively  wise  and  excessively 
foolish.  Thus  it  is  that  we  ov^^e  much  to 
biography  for  the  prescriptive  rights  which 
certain  ancient  lies  acquire  to  pass  for  truth. 
But  the  art  of  biography  has  never  been  able 
to  spoil  the  fame  of  John  Marshall,  and  the 
multitude  of  biographers  have  never  cheapened 
or  vulgarized  any  act  of  his.  Whether  in 
school-boy  garb  poring  over  Milton  and 
Shakespeare,  or  as  a  soldier  of  the  infant 
colonies  at  Brandywine,  or  in  the  blood-stained 
snows  of  Valley  Forge,  or  serving  their  councils 
when  peace  came,  or  as  the  master-mind  of  our 
great  tribunal  for  many  years,  he  was  every 
inch  a  man. 

It  is  not  given  to  any  other  profession  in 
this  country  to  have  one  universally  accorded, 
pre-eminent  name.  We  could  not  agree  on  the 
greatest  soldier,  poet,  philosopher,  novelist,  or  the 
greatest  statesman  or  preacher;  but  I  think  we 
would  all  name  Marshall  as  our  greatest  jurist. 

One  of  the  qualities  of  hero-worship  is  its 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      199 

demand  for  a  constant  succession  of  heroes.  At 
fifteen  we  devour  Plutarch's  Lives,  and  the 
deeds  of  his  worthies  will  not  let  us  sleep.  We 
kindle  over  the  showier  pageants  of  history,  over 
Patrick  Henry  and  Clay,  and  all  those  notables 
who  have  figured  in  some  dramatic  climax. 
Grown  older,  we  demand  that  our  idols  be  of 
greater  proof.  We  find,  as  Emerson  says,  that 
''history  is  made  up  of  the  biographies  of  a  few 
stout  souls."  Mingled  with  these,  we  see  many 
pretenders  at  the  work  of  history-making,  yet  it 
sometimes  takes  us  half  a  life-time  to  separate 
what  is  true  and  stable  from  that  which  is 
pretentious  and  false.  But  it  is  a  fine  quality  in 
the  character  of  Marshall  that  whether  we 
come  to  him  early  or  late,  he  always  has  for  us 
the  same  unchanging  manhood  and  serenity, 
the  same  moral  elevation. 

Bacon  took  bribes.  Our  admiration  for 
Lord  Eldon  flags  when  we  find  that  he  set  his 
face  against  every  reform  proposed  for  mis- 
governed England,  that  he  had  no  principles, 
that  he  urged  religious  persecution,  was 
ignorant  of  Hterature  and  of  systems  of  juris- 
prudence, and  was  a  toadying  place-hunter.  If 
w^e  turn  to  Lord  Mansfield,  we  finally  come  to 
know    that    he    was   cold    and    unfeefing,    and 


200      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

lacked  moral  courage  and  that  his  love  of  justice 
was  not  ingrained,  but  a  matter  of  professional 
training  of  a  like  quality  with  the  love  of  some 
men  for  philanthropy;  they  love  business  so 
well  that  they  make  their  good  works  a  matter 
of  business  and  not  of  innate  benevolence.  If 
we  attempt  hero-worship  with  Lord  Thurlow, 
our  ardour  is  checked  by  the  knowledge  that 
he  thought  the  patriot  Home  Tooke  should  be 
pilloried  rather  than  imprisoned,  because  he 
was  of  sedentary  habits,  and  imprisonment 
would  be  no  punishment  to  him;  by  his  puerile 
plan  for  subjugating  the  colonies  by  a  writ  of 
scii-e  facias  and  by  his  opposition  to  all  inter- 
ference with  the  slave  trade.  Even  grand  old 
Coke  was  brutal  and  unfair  towards  the  helpless 
victims  of  oppressive  laws  whom  he  prosecuted 
for  the  crown.  As  for  Blackstone,  a  careful 
study  of  his  life  does  not  entirely  impress  us 
with  his  scholarship  as  a  lawyer  or  his  breadth 
as  a  man.  Nor  can  Lord  Hardwicke's  fame 
claim  our  homage  when  we  have  read  of  him 
that; — "He  was  undoubtedly  an  excellent 
Chancellor,  and  might  have  been  thought  a 
great  man,  had  he  been  less  avaricious,  less 
proud;  less  unlike  a  gentleman.  " 

Coming    nearer   to   our   own  time,    if   we 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES  -   201 

thrill  over  the  eloquence  of  Pinkney  we  shudder 
when  we  find  him  wearing  kid  gloves  in  court. 
Contemporaneous  verdict  wrote  Ichabod on  the 
front  of  the  god-like  Webster  because  he  did 
not  bravely  meet  the  storm  that  was  gathering 
over  the  question  of  slavery. 

So  we  ruefully  survey  the  broken  idols  of 
boyish  years,  thankful  if  some  salvage  of 
character  be  left  out  of  these  many  wrecks. 
But  Marshall  is  not  one  of  these;  we  still 
stand  before  him  reverently  and  uncovered,  our 
faith  unshaken,  our  admiration  and  respect 
unchanged.  As  a  practitioner  at  the  bar,  he 
was  patient  and  considerate  with  the  court,  and 
did  not,  so  far  as  can  be  learned,  ever  make  the 
near-by  tavern  a  court  of  dernier  ressort,  in 
which  to  prosecute  a  blasphemous  appeal  from 
an  adverse  judgment.  Nor  was  he  bumptious 
and  arrogant  with  the  court,  seeking  to  gain 
by  rudeness  and  noise  what  he  could  not  win 
with  argument.  Nor  did  he  wring  unjust 
decisions  from  a  weak  and  halting  judge  by 
overawing  him  with  his  reputation  or  superior 
learning,  or  by  quoting  to  him  the  street 
opinion  of  Mr.  So-and-so,  an  eminent  lawyer, 
(whom  he  knew  the  judge  looked  on  as 
infallible),  to  the  effect  that  the  opposite  party 


202      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

had  no  case.  While  he  had  a  natural  wit 
sufficient  for  all  purposes,  he  did  not  wear  it 
out  by  continual  exercise  in  court  so  that  it 
became  as  laggard  as  a  founderous  horse,  (as 
was  the  w^ont  of  many  lawyers  in  his  day,  and 
since.)  Nor  did  he  encourage  attempt  at  wit 
in  court  on  the  part  of  lawyers  without  wit, 
who  driveled  in  pointless  wooden  jests  under 
the  impression  that  they  were  funny.  Nor  did 
he  laugh  servilely  and  hilariously  at  the 
attempted  wit  of  the  judge,  or  flatter  or  cajole 
him,  but  treated  him  in  all  respects  as  if  he 
were  a  mere  human  being.  Nor  did  he  try  to 
entrap  the  judge  at  w^^5j'/>r/^/5  into  committing 
an  error  against  him  which  should  work  a 
reversal  of  the  cause  on  appeal.  Nor  did  he 
soar  on  eagle  wings  in  argument  just  for  the 
sake  of  soaring,  or  tear  a  passion  to  tatters,  to 
very  rags,  in  order  to  split  the  ears  of  the 
groundlings.  He  never  laid  himself  open  to  the 
rebuke  which  Baron  Alderson  once  administered 
to  a  young  lawyer  who  was  soaring  into  the 
empyrean, — "Don't  go  any  higher,  for  you  are 
already  out  of  the  jurisdiction  of  the  court.  " 
With  Marshall  the  best  eloquence  was  the 
eloquence  of  simplicity,  of  naturalness,  of  ear- 
nestness and  love  of  truth,   unspoiled  by  self- 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      203 

consciousness  or  vanity.  He  listened  patiently 
to  the  most  foolish  and  verbose  client,  knowing 
that  now  and  then,  comes  a  man  into  a  lawyer's 
office  who  must  first  give  the  history  of  his  own 
and  his  wife's  relations,  and  of  a  previous  suit 
he  has  had,  and  of  a  highway  robbery  and  a 
murder  case  that  once  occurred  in  his  neighbour- 
hood, before  he  talks  of  the  case  he  came  to 
consult  about.  Beloved  old  Fuller  thus 
describes  these  banal  clients  : — "Many  country 
people  must  be  impertinent,  before  they  can  be 
pertinent,  and  cannot  give  evidence  about  a 
hen,  but  they  must  first  begin  itdn  the  egg." 
There  was  a  like  freedom  from  error  in 
Marshall's  conduct  when  he  came  to  the 
bench.  As  a  judge  he  w^as  patient  and  ready 
to  listen  to  the  most  tedious  barrister,  knowing 
that  now  and  then  even  the  most  tedious  will 
let  drop  a  few  words  of  sense  and  pertinence. 
I  cannot  find  however,  that  he  had  the  saving 
sense  of  humour  of  Chief  Justice  Gibson,  who 
once  playfully  boasted  that  he  had  achieved  the 
height  of  his  ambition,  namely, — "To  be  able 
to  keep  my  eyes  fixed  on  a  dull  speaker  while 
my  thoughts  are  employed  with  more  agreeable 
objects, — this  is  certainly  a  great  judicial 
triumph.  "     Some  of  my  experiences  in  arguing 


204      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

cases,  have  led  me  to  believe  that  other  judges 
than  Gibson  have  acquired  this  happy  facility. 
Marshall  had  the  first  qualification  of  a  good 
judge,  that  of  being  a  good  listener.  He  heard 
the  last  word  of  the  wordiest  barrister,  knowing 
that  it  might  contain  the  whole  matter.  He 
interrupted  counsel  sometimes  with  pertinent 
suggestion  and  interrogation,  but  never  for  the 
purpose  of  airing  his  own  learning,  and  only 
that  he  might  the  better  elucidate  the  subject 
in  hand.  He  never  delighted  in  small  shows  of 
authority  over  the  members  of  his  bar,  and  it 
is  certain  that  when  he  presided  at  nisi prius, 
he  did  not  aim  to  impress  the  galleries,  or  use 
the  occasion  of  an  application  for  a  continuance 
to  harangue  the  rear  benches.  Nor  did  he 
play  politics  in  court  intending  that  the  benefit 
should  return  to  him  in  the  shape  of  political 
advancement  or  favour.  His  character  was  such 
as  to  assure  us  that  no  matter  what  judicial 
position  he  might  occupy,  he  would  never  curry 
favour  with  the  people  by  disloyalty  to  the  bar. 
The  striking  feature  of  his  court,  was  the 
absence  of  hurry.  The  court  seemed  to  have 
plenty  of  time,  and  calmly  and  leisurely  took 
up  the  cases  before  it  and  heard  them  exhaust- 
ively presented   before  passing  on  them.     The 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      205 

modern  practice  of  writing  opinions  while  you 
wait,  was  happily  not  in  vogue  then.  MARSHALL 
was  not  haunted  by  the  fear  of  an  overclogged 
calendar,  and  thought  it  more  important  that 
causes  should  be  properly  considered  and 
determined  than  that  he  should  keep  his 
calendar  clear.  In  commendation  of  his 
practice,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  half  the 
errors  that  creep  into  the  decisions  of  our  courts 
now,  are  caused  by  lack  of  time  to  properly 
argue  and  present  cases,  and  then  by  lack  of 
time  on  the  part  of  the  courts  to  consider  the 
cases  and  write  out  their  opinions.  We 
feverishly  and  hurriedly  argue  cases,  watching 
the  while  the  threatening  clock,  and  the  judges 
listen  feverishly  and  hurriedly  also  watching  the 
clock,  and,  still  watching  the  clock,  feverishly 
and  hurriedly  write  out  their  opinions.  The 
tyranny  of  the  clock  should  be  banished  from 
our  courts.  The  blind  goddess  has  always 
been  depicted  as  holding  the  scales  and  the 
sword,  but  never  the  hour-glass.  It  should  be 
enough  of  a  disability  that  she  is  blind  without 
making  her  travesty  Father  Time,  by  stealing 
for  her  a  part  of  his  equipment.  To  paraphrase 
the  poet's  sentiment,  we  should,  in  court,  live 
in  thought,  and  in  ripened  judgment;  not  in 


206      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

the  shadow  of  the  fingers  on  a  dial.  The 
understanding  of  a  complicated  case  only  grows 
to  matured  perfection  through  that  growth 
and  evolution  which  is  the  law  governing  all 
human  endeavour.  The  fruits  of  haste  in  court 
are  unripe  judgments,  commanding  no  respect 
and  satisfying  no  obligation.  Nor  is  undue 
haste  solely  a  vice  of  our  courts  of  last  resort. 
We  have  all  seen  trial  judges  in  trials  involving 
the  liberty  or  other  important  rights  of  the 
citizen,  unduly  limit  jury  argument,  leaving 
counsel  to  stumble  hurriedly  on,  with  the 
harrassing  thought  that  the  judicial  gavel 
would  at  last  fall  inopportunely  on  his  hopes. 
As  lawyers  we  should  meet  these  encroachments 
on  our  rights  and  duties  with  that  rugged 
independence  that  is  ours  as  equal  ministers 
and  officers  of  justice  with  the  judge  upon  the 
bench.  It  is  good  to  turn  from  this  picture  of 
haste  to  the  serene  atmosphere  of  Marshall's 
court,  where,  as  you  may  know,  no  haste  or 
carelessness  would  be  tolerated. 

The  bar  did  much  for  MARSHALL.  Before 
him  came  the  great  lawyers  of  his  day.  There 
came  Martin  and  Harper,  IngersoU  and  Dexter, 
and  the  lawyer-poet  Key ;  there  came  from  the 
west  the  great  Kentuckian,  Henry  Clay,  and 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      207 

with  him  Marshall  the  younger;  there  also  was 
the  exiled  Emmet,  who  fled  from  his  native 
land  after  his  brother  gave  up  his  life  to  English 
justice;  to  that  court  also  came  Rawle  and 
Dallas,  Binney  and  Sergeant,  the  eloquent 
Pinkney,  Stockton,  Wirt  and  Adams.  Early 
in  the  century  Webster  appeared  there,  rugged 
and  somber  as  his  own  New  England  mountains, 
a  figure  of  heroic  port,  fit  to  hold  a  world  in  awe. 
Some  of  these  lawyers  of  Marshall's  court, 
like  Swann,  and  the  Lees,  who  argued  scores 
of  causes  before  him,  had  not  fame  enough  to 
accord  them  a  place  in  the  enclopaedias, — those 
dusty  crypts  of  the  immortals.  So  often  it  is 
that  the  fame  of  the  great  lawyer  is  written  in 
the  running  water;  you  may  search  and  you 
shall  find  but  his  name,  or  a  handful  of  dust, 
in  I  know  not  what  forgotten  graveyard.  It 
was  an  age  of  saddle-bags  and  circuit-riding, — 
the  golden  age  of  the  American  Bar.  Not 
golden  in  fat  fees  for  the  lawyer,  but  golden  in 
its  wealth  of  high  ambitions  and  aspirations,  in 
its  leisure  for  study  and  reflection.  The  lawyer 
was  not  ruffled  or  discomposed  by  the  roar  and 
clang  of  a  hurrying  civilization.  Calmly  he 
could  welcome  the  pale  midnight  lamp  and  the 
day  of  toil  succeeding.     The  great  lawyers  who 


208      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

came  to  Marshall's  court  had  the  primal 
vigour  of  a  new  race.  A  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth  were  in  creation,  and  the  morning  song 
of  that  creation  made  vibrant  music  in  the  heart 
of  man.  The  mighty  youth  of  our  nation, 
awkward,  yet  strong  and  virile,  was  breaking 
from  its  swaddling  clothes.  Life  was  full,  and 
warm  and  glorious,  untrammeled  by  king  or 
caste,  or  adamantine  social  formations.  Bunker 
Hill  and  Yorktown  were  near  at  hand  and  the 
tumult  of  the  seven  years'  battle  yet  thrilled 
the  air.  By  farm,  and  forge,  and  shop,  in  the 
pulpit,  at  the  bar,  and  on  the  bench,  were 
found  the  patriots  who  had  faced  the  veterans 
of  the  king  in  the  great  struggle  for  indepen- 
dence, and  when  evening  came  they  told  by 
their  firesides,  again  and  again,  the  tale  of 
valour  and  devotion.  Mother  earth  never  before 
cradled  so  heroic  a  race.  For  what  it  had  been 
and  was  to  be,  it  was  worthy  the  prophetic 
benediction  bestowed  upon  the  Patriarch, 
Abraham — "Look  now  towards  heaven  and 
tell  the  stars,  if  thou  be  able  to  number  them. 
So  shall  thy  posterity  be.  ' ' 

It  was  already  turning  towards  the  bound- 
less west,  where  unknown  rivers  ran,  and 
unknown   mountains  and  plains,   mocked  and 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      209 

beckoned  it  with  visions  of  greater  emprise. 
The  century  was  yet  young  when  we  added 
Louisiana  to  our  heritage,  and  beyond  that,  in 
the  gorgeous  cloudland  of  the  setting  sun,  lay 
the  empire  of  the  Golden  Gate.  We  ask  now 
in  wonder,  what  pulsing  sap  of  high  endeavour 
was  it  that  sent  the  hardy  pioneers  of  our  race 
over  the  mountain  barriers,  and  down  the 
westward-flowing  rivers,  into  the  dark  and 
bloody  ground,  while  yet  half  the  seacoast  was  a 
wilderness,  and  millions  of  acres  there,  were 
untouched  by  axe  or  plough.  "They  were 
blooded  to  the  open  and  the  sky;  "  they  heard 
the  voices  of  the  mysterious  rayriad-tongued 
wilderness  of  the  west,  calling  to  them  to  come 
farther  and  still  farther.  Through  all  the 
western  wild,  they  founded  new  republics. 
To-day  you  might  look  upon  a  land  wrapped 
in  the  changeless  sleep  of  unnumbered  centuries; 
to-morrow  came,  and  the  forest  rang  with  the 
sounds  of  the  pioneer  combat  with  nature. 
Upon  the  pioneer  hearthstone  they  kindled  the 
beacon  fires,  to  guide  the  thronging  tide  that 
followed  after.  They  carried  with  them  as  their 
ark  of  the  covenant,  the  sacred  inheritance  of 
liberty  and  law.  Under  all  the  ranging  stars, 
this  was  the  true  romance,    the    unsung   and 


210      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

unwritten  epic,  greater  than  that  of  any  warrior 
host  of  olden  time.  It  vivified  even  the  dullest 
township  records.  Nature  molded  and  bounded 
and  placed  them.  They  took  their  lands,  not 
in  formal  squares,  to  delight  a  surveyor's 
science,  but  from  tree  to  hilltop,  from  river  to 
mountain,  from  buffalo  trail  to  Indian  trail. 
Sometimes  their  title  records  were  written  in 
blood,  and  a  devolution  of  ownership  from 
father  to  son  is  told  with  the  simple  inscription, 
— "Killed  by  the  Indians."  Their  abstracts 
of  title  are  not  the  dry  and  tedious  records  that 
we  are  wont  to  peruse  as  daily  tasks ;  the  dull 
parchment  glows  with  the  light  of  the  blazing 
roof-tree,  and  stains  darker  than  ink,  tell  of 
the  awful  woodland  tragedy.  The  lawyer  of 
those  infant  communities  carried  his  rifle  in  one 
hand  and  his  Coke  and  Blackstone  in  the 
other.  It  w^as  the  battle  of  the  strong,  and 
this  near-by  boundary  line  of  peril  and  adven- 
ture made  men  great.  It  gave  Boone  and  his 
fellow  frontiersmen  to  the  world  of  romance  and 
story;  it  gave  Marshall,  and  his  compeers  to 
the  bench  and  the  bar.  From  the  loins  of  the 
young  republic  so  invigorated,  sprang  the  great 
lawyers  who  counselled  with  Marshall,  and 
aided  him  through  many  years  of  toil  to  build 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      211 

that  monument  of  learning-  that  is  our  delight 
and  admiration.  I  think  the  influence  of  such 
an  age  produced  in  the  pioneer  lawyer  the 
happiest  blending  of  the  man  of  action  and  of 
affairs,  sternly  contending  with  the  problems  of 
infant  statehood,  and  the  scholar,  unhampered 
by  closet  wisdom,  or  any  of  the  decayed 
scholastic  regimen  of  older  lands.  The  fable 
of  the  ancient  athletes,  who,  thrown  to  earth, 
leaped  up  invigorated  by  the  momentary  contact 
with  the  great  mother,  had  in  it  something 
more  than  fable.  Men  newly  sprung  from  the 
soil  have  nurtured  in  them  best  the  eternal 
harmonies  of  nature,  and  their  rugged  strength 
brushes  away  the  conventions  and  customs  of 
outworn  men.  It  was  this  that  gave  the 
Corsican  adventurer  power  to  make  a  new 
science  of  war,  and  to  shake  the  thrones  of 
Europe,  while  enfeebled  kings  and  nobles  stood 
panic-stricken  in  trembling  imbecility. 

In  the  youth  of  our  nation,  its  people  were 
given  no  child-age.  They  had  the  simplicity  of 
shepherd  and  peasant,  yet  theirs  w^as  no  shep- 
herd peace;  no  bucolic  calm  where  village  sports 
and  minstrel  songs  beguilded  the  time,  and  all 
the  currents  of  life  ran  kindly  and  undisturbed. 
The  old  men  dreamed  dreams  and  the  young 


212      CRITICAL    CONFESSIONS 

men  saw  visions,  but  dream  and  vision  alike 
were  of  the  Titan  tasks  before  them.  All  the 
poetry  and  romance  that  heaven  ever  gave  to 
the  imagination  of  man,  environed  them  in  land 
and  sea  and  sky,  yet  they  but  meagerly  recorded 
these  in  letters.  Their  poets  were  dumb:  their 
sages  did  not  sit  by  the  winter's  fire  and  tell 
old  tales,  but  bore  the  burdens  of  youth. 
England  and  France  harried  our  commerce  on 
the  seas,  more  than  willing  in  their  fierce  hatred 
for  each  other  to  involve  the  safety  of  the  little 
republic.  On  the  other  side  the  savage 
threatened,  and  every  pioneer  outpost  became 
an  armed  camp,  where  even  the  women  stood 
ready  to  drop  the  distaff  and  take  up  the  rifle. 
Domestic  discord  prevailed  and  a  seething 
ferment  of  conflicting  claims  seemed  ready  to 
destroy  all  that  had  been  gained  by  the 
Revolution.  In  this  tense,  overcharged  atmos- 
phere men  became  statesmen  and  warriors, 
stern-faced  and  serious. 

The  lawyer  of  those  days  did  not  have 
many  books.  Some  one  has  said  that  we 
should  read  books  in  order  to  learn  to  do  with- 
out them,  as  if  in  disdain  of  the  mere  slave  of 
books,  who  has  no  sufficient  wisdom  outside  of 
them,  and  whose  learning  degenerates  into  mere 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      213 

pedantry,  clinging  weakly  to  line  and  page  for 
its  faith.  A  companion  apothegm  is, — "Fear 
the  man  of  one  book.  "  The  Sage  of  Malmsbury 
said,  "If  I  had  read  as  many  books  as  other 
persons  I  should  probably  know  as  little.  "  The 
pioneer  lawyer  with  his  well-thumbed  Blackstone 
and  Coke  had  to  learn  to  do  without  books. 
He  was  a  real  Robinson  Crusoe,  cast  into  a 
bookless  land,  and  commanded  by  dire  necessity 
to  build  and  construct  with  native  skill  and  wit 
alone.  Perhaps  it  was  better  so.  It  may  be 
doubted  whether  Webster  would  have  exceeded 
his  argument  in  the  Dartmouth  College  Case, 
or  in  Luther  vs.  Borden,  if  he  had  had  at  his 
command  all  the  wealth  of  our  libraries.  We 
are  hag-ridden  by  the  multitude  of  precedents. 
They  haunt  our  higher  courts  along  with  the 
dread  specter  of  The  Unfinished  Calendar.  But 
the  curse  of  many  books  falls  heaviest  on  the 
bar.  We  have  abundant  proof  that  there  are 
law  book  factories  running  overtime,  where  text 
books  of  the  gold  brick  order  are  manufactured 
in  vast  quantities.  The  wooden  machinery  of 
manufacture  is  a  corps  of  indigent  young  men, 
who  can  each  readily  toss  off  a  few  text  books 
every  year  for  a  modest  stipend.  A  mental  vision 
of  the  interior  of  one  of  these  factories  discloses 


214      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

long  rows  of  young  men  at  quarter-sawed  desks, 
with  clerkly  pens  stuck  artistically  behind  their 
learned  ears,  turning  out  piece-work,  their 
hours  of  labour  rigidly  fixed  by  the  factory 
whistle.  Each  has  his  certificate  of  admission 
to  the  bar  hung  handily  before  him,  to  which 
he  can  refer  for  information  from  time  to  time. 
Anon,  the  manager  appears  and  gives 
commands. — "Mr.  Jones,  I  am  astonished  that 
you  have  not  completed  that  work  on  Constitu- 
tional Law.  You  have  been  at  it  for  at  least 
two  months.  I  shall  have  to  lay  you  off  for 
thirty  days;  Mr.  Tompkins  will  take  your 
place.  "  "Mr.  Smith,  the  Employers  National 
Defence  Association,  has  given  us  an  order  for 
the  manufacture  of  their  work  on  Contributory 
Negligence,  and  you  may  commence  it  at  once. 
They  sent  me  a  list  of  cases  which  they  did  not 
want  cited  in  it  and  you  must  see  that  none  of 
them  get  in  by  any  mistake.  We  must  fill  this 
order  in  thirty  days.  When  it  is  finished,  I 
have  plans  and  specifications  all  ready  for  two 
lines  of  works  that  you  will  begin  on,  one  to  be 
called  "The  Vest  Pocket  Series,  Or  Law  In 
Little;"  the  other  "Baby  Text  Books.  "  So 
the  great  man  passes  on  vscattering  law  right 
and  left.     His  knights  of  the  road  perpetrate 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      215 

their  genial  hold-ups  in  our  offices,  and  fill  our 
shelves  with  very  much  abridged  and  expurgated 
sheep  covered  obscurities.  If,  having  a  case 
outside  the  beaten  rut  of  authority,  you  should 
be  subjected  to  the  inevitable  inane  demand  of 
the  bench  for  a  precedent,  do  not  make  search 
in  these  callow  commentaries,  for  it  will  be 
fruitless,  and  will  only  inspire  you  v^ith  a  lethal 
hatred  of  your  fellow  men.  The  enterprise  of 
our  law  book  factory  makes  a  fine  accord  with 
that  of  some  of  our  jurists, — text  books  while 
you  wait,  and  opinions  while  you  wait. 

But  we  willingly  turn  from  these  vexing 
humours  of  the  law  to  our  earnest  theme.  In 
biographical  study  we  search  far  and  near  for 
events  that  may  have  affected  the  subject  of 
our  study.  We  eagerly  interrogate  excelling 
nature  for  the  secret  of  her  treasure  house  that 
has  nurtured  genius.  We  grope  for  the 
inspirations  of  a  great  manhood  not  only  in  the 
environment  of  youth,  but  also  in  the  deeds  of 
ancient  days — Marathon  is  still  the  nursing 
mother  of  heroes,  and  every  battle  for  freedom 
breeds  patriots  even  in  distant  times.  The  roar 
of  the  patriot  cannon  at  Bunker  Hill  summoned 
a  race  of  warrior  statesmen  from  every  walk  of 
life.     No     conscription    or    mercenary     hiring 


216      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

compelled  their  devotion.  In  Freedom's  line  of 
descent,  they  were  the  lineal  heirs  of  Hampden 
and  Sydney.  They  did  not  stand  in  awe  of 
kings  for  their  near  ancestors  had  seen  one 
English  king  brought  to  the  block,  and  another 
driven  forth  from  his  kingdom  an  unthroned 
exile,  because  of  their  oppressions.  They  felt 
the  potent  spell  of  that  earlier  defiance  of  kingly 
aggression  that  sprang  up  in  the  meadow  of 
Runnymede,  and  of  the  later  confirmation  of 
what  was  there  pledged. 

Marshall  was  born  into  the  world,  and 
grew  up  to  manhood  at  a  time  when  great 
events  were  moving  the  nations.  In  1755 
England  was  ringed  round  with  foes,  yet  on 
the  eve  of  her  greatest  achievements.  She  had 
become  slothful  and  lethargic  through  a  long 
period  of  parliamentary  corruption,  during 
which  the  market  price  of  a  borough  was  five 
thousand  pounds  and  Walpole  held  in  his 
pocket  the  votes  of  the  country  members. 
Rotten  boroughs  and  sinecures  were  the  pawns 
of  politics,  and  great  noblemen  and  fawning 
place-hunters  played  for  them  with  cogged  dice. 
The  Gentlemen  of  the  Long  Robe  were 
pleasantly  employed  in  hanging  their  fellow 
men  for  stealing  rabbits  and  loaves  of  bread, 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      217 

and  in  hunting  down  those  malig^nants  who 
committed  treason  by  objecting  to  the  existing 
order  of  things.  The  Man  With  the  Hoe 
patiently  tilled  his  field,  and  waited  and  prayed 
under  skies  of  brass.  It  was  in  1757,  two  years 
after  Marshall  was  born,  that  the  elder  Pitt 
assumed  leadership  of  the  island  kingdom.  In 
a  short  space  of  time  under  his  indomitable 
genius,  the  English  people  had  changed  the 
map  of  the  world.  He  supplied  Frederick  The 
Great  with  English  troops,  and  a  vast  annual 
subsidy  for  his  defence.  In  1759  English 
admirals  defeated  two  French  fleets  in  the  Bay 
of  Biscay  and  off  the  coast  of  Portugal.  Clive 
was  winning  imperishable  renown  in  India 
against  the  French,  and  shortly  the  Phillipine 
Islands  fell  into  the  hands  of  England.  In 
thOvSe  glorious  days  Englishmen  awoke  in  the 
morning  and  asked  exultantly  "What  new 
victory  to-day.  " 

The  lion's  whelp  was  also  ranging  wide  in 
the  new  world.  With  the  aid  of  colonial  troops 
Amherst  captured  Ticonderoga,  and  Johnson 
Niagara,  while  Wolf  stormed  the  Heights  of 
Abraham  and  captured  Quebec,  and  with  it 
half  a  continent.  It  was  in  1762  that  an 
English    and    colonial  force    captured  Havana 


218      CRITICAL    CONFESSIONS 

and  with  it  the  Island  of  Cuba.  Almost  in  a 
day  England  found  herself  mistress  of  one  great 
empire  on  the  Ganges  and  another  on  the  St. 
Lawrence.  By  means  of  her  invincible  navies, 
and  the  tireless  grip  that  she  maintained  on  the 
mighty  fortress  that  stands  in  sentineled 
majesty  at  the  gateway  of  two  continents,  she 
held  supremacy  on  the  seas  against  all  foes.  At 
Havana,  Quebec,  and  Ticonderoga,  and  in 
many  bloody  battles  with  the  red  men,  her 
children  in  the  New  World  held  her  honour  and 
prowess  safe.  They  earned  with  their  blood  a 
better  requital  than  she  was  to  give  them.  The 
time  was  soon  to  come  when  she  was  to 
ruthlessly  sacrifice  their  dearest  rights  at  the 
behest  of  a  weak  and  foolish  ministry.  Even 
in  the  hour  of  her  greatest  triumphs,  the  storm 
was  gathering  that  was  to  sweep  away  her 
power  in  the  land  that  Raleigh,  and  Penn,  and 
Smith,  had  won  for  her  from  out  the  unknown 
void.  Cavalier  and  Roundhead,  Quaker  and 
Puritan,  had  learned  too  well  the  lessons  of 
liberty  that  outlive  the  dungeon  and  the 
scaffold,  to  submit  to  all  the  tasks  of  tyranny. 
The  eloquence  of  Burke  and  Chatham  could 
not  shame  or  deter  her  from  her  course. 

The  youth  of  MARSHALL  was  spent  in  this 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      219 

wonder-age,  this  surging  ferment  of  great 
forces,  presaging  greater  things  to  come.  His 
father,  Thomas  Marshall,  is  said  to  have  been 
**A  man  of  extraordinary  vigour  of  mind  and 
dauntless  courage.  "  He  was  the  friend  of 
Washington,  and  was  one  of  the  first  to  take 
up  arms  against  the  king.  He  was  with 
Washington  at  the  crossing  of  the  Delaware, 
and  shared  in  the  honour  of  that  daring  exploit. 
Father  and  son  both,  were  at  Brandywine,  and 
the  son  was  also  in  the  battles  of  Germantown 
and  Monmouth,  and  was  with  Washington's 
army  through  that  deadly  winter  in  the  snow- 
bound camp  at  Valley  Forge.  It  is  our  special 
pride  that  in  all  of  the  recurring  tragedies  of  war 
through  which  we  have  passed,  the  soldier- 
lawyer  has  borne  well  his  part.  He  has  won 
the  knighthood  of  honour  on  every  battle-field 
of  the  republic  from  Bunker  Hill  to  Appomatox. 
In  no  other  land  have  those  of  our  profession  so 
freely  put  off  the  advocate's  gown  and  taken  up 
the  sword.  When  our  civil  war  came,  thousands 
of  kindling  youth  yet  in  their  novitiate,  threw 
down  their  books  and  hurried  to  the  front, 
generously  exchanging  the  court  for  the  camp, 
and  the  peaceful  vigils  of  the  lamp  for  the  ruder 
vigils   of   the   soldiers    bivouac.     In    peril    and 


220      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

privation  they  attested  their  devotion  to  their 
country,  and  many  of  them  lie  buried  in 
Southern  soil.  Some  of  them  returned  to  gain 
great  distinction  at  the  bar  and  on  the  bench, 
and  hold  in  fee  the  rewards  of  two  great 
professions.  Theirs  should  be  the  three-fold 
blessing  of  the  Great  King, — "Length  of  days 
in  their  right  hand  and  in  their  left,  riches  and 
honour."  Ihavefancied  that  this  dual  education 
and  experience  has  blended  in  them  a  broader 
and  kindlier  resultant  of  character  than  is  given 
to  others.  Of  this  type  of  manhood  was  John 
Marshall.  He  loved  books  better  than  war 
but  when  the  call  to  arms  came,  he  left  the 
scholar's  retirement  and  ease  and  took  his 
place  with  his  countrymen.  We  give  him,  dead, 
the  four-fold  meed  of  praise, — as  soldier,  lawyer, 
statesman,  and  jurist;  yet  I  am  sure  that, 
living,  he  felt  that  heaven  could  make  him  no 
kindlier  gifts  than  the  memories  he  held  of 
Brandywine  and  Valley  Forge. 

Marshall  had  literary  leanings  in  his 
earlier  years,  not  in  the  direction  of  the  law. 
He  cultivated  the  Muse  of  Poetry  with  at  least 
some  small  result  in  verse.  He  had  the  example 
of  the  great  lawyers  who  have  occasionally 
dropped  into  poetry.      But  with  him,   as  with 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      221 

them,  it  seems  to  have  been  a  mere  casual  and 
accidental  fault,  — an  instance  of  Homeric 
nodding.  It  is  true  the  lawyer's  license  covers 
the  right  to  borrow,  and  this,  no  doubt,  can 
be  interpreted  to  mean  that  he  may  warm  his 
heart  with  the  verses  of  other  people,  and  adorn 
with  vernal  bloom  the  aridities  of  the  law. 
Coke  quaintly  says  of  this  commendable 
practice, — "Verses  at  the  first  were  invented 
for  the  help  of  memrie,  and  it  standeth  well 
with  the  gravitie  of  our  lawyer  to  cite  them,  " 
Chief  Justice  Bleckley  of  Georgia  was  sometimes 
a  poet,  but  with  him  it  was  a  mere  incident  of 
the  strenuous  life.  I  think  he  embalmed  some 
verses  in  the  amber  of  his  opinions,  in  mere 
frolic,  as  Marshall  sought  relaxation  from  the 
cares  of  the  bench  in  the  game  of  quoits.  Judge 
Cranch  was  a  musician,  but  not  a  poet,  but  he 
did  allow  his  son  to  write  poetry.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  add  that  the  son  never  achieved 
the  father's  fame.  Judge  Finch  of  the  New 
York  Court  of  Appeals  wrote  college  songs,  but 
this  seems  to  have  been  a  vice  of  youth.  Often, 
when  the  bar  supposed  Chief  Justice  Gibson 
was  listening,  he  was  writing  poetical  skits,  or 
drawing  fancy  sketches.  But  this  was  probably 
done  in  self  defense.     In  early  childhood  Judofe 


222      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

Story  was  a  poet,  but  he  recovered  from  it 
along  with  other  infantile  ailments,  except  for 
an  occasional  lapse, — governed  by  the  maxim 
de  minimis  non  curat  lex.  It  is  related  of 
Marshall  that  in  his  earlier  years  he  wrote  a 
small  volume  of  verses,  but,  as  his  biographer 
felicitously  puts  it,  "He  exhibited  in  this 
matter  the  same  rare  good  sense  that  character- 
ized him  in  all  things,  he  never  published  it ." 
Certainly  the  offence  was  grave,  yet  he  nobly 
redeemed  himself  and  afterwards  lived  it  down. 
In  spite  of  these  wayward  examples  from  the 
lives  of  good  men  and  great,  it  is  rightly 
considered  as  much  as  a  lawyer's  reputation  is 
worth,  to  be  known  as  a  poet.  The  law  is  a 
jealous  mistress  and  makes  wry  faces  at  the 
Muse  of  Poetry.  The  lawyer  must  busy  his 
imagination  and  creative  talent  with  the  nice 
sharp  quilletts  of  his  hornbooks,  baking  his 
brains  in  the  swift  fire  of  our  multitudinous 
reports,  even  though  it  shall  give  him  the 
blemish  of  "boiled  eyes,"  which  Dickens  avers 
he  found  bulging  from  the  physiognomy  of  the 
barristers  of  the  Inns  of  Court.  If  the  lawyer 
have  the  literary  instinct,  he  may  build  as  did 
Chitty  and  Cooley;  he  may  make  his  briefs 
models  of  clear  and  lucid  reasoning,  with  no"\v 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      223 

and  then  a  permissive  jest  of  such  rare  point  as 
that  it  will  disturb  the  court  in  its  daily 
slumbers.  All  the  treasures  of  literature  are 
his  to  do  with  what  he  will,  and  he  may  in  the 
divine  passion  of  forensic  argument  invoke  all 
the  poets  and  sages  to  do  him  tasks.  He  may 
seek  a  place  on  the  bench,  and  there,  with  the 
aid  of  a-  good  memory  to  enable  him  not  to 
overrule  to-day  that  which  he  decided  yesterday, 
lay  up  for  himself  better  treasures  than  the 
toys  of  poesy.  I  cannot  learn  that  Marshall 
ever  indulged,  judicially  at  least,  in  a  joke. 
The  nearest  he  ever  came  to  it, — and  it  was  not 
very  near,  was  on  one  occasion  when  he  was 
standing  on  a  step-ladder  in  the  library  and  fell 
to  the  floor  under  a  load  of  books.  He 
remarked,  "I  have  laid  down  the  law  often, 
but  this  is  the  first  time  the  law  ever  laid  me 
down."  But  this  was  in  the  library,  with  no 
one  but  the  librarian  to  witness  this  relaxing 
jocularity.  Marshall  never  gave  way  to  any 
like  weakness  on  the  bench.  The  nimble  play 
of  wit  and  fancy  which  has  been  the  delight  of 
some  able  jurists,  was  not  his  forte.  He  made 
a  serious  business  of  his  judicial  duties.  The 
foregoing  solitary  example  wall  show  that  he 
was  thus  a  total  abstainer,  from  inaptitude  and 


224      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

not  from  choice.  We  cannot  think  that  he  was 
deterred  by  the  fact  that  repute  as  a  wit  some- 
times detracts  from  the  well-deserved  fame  of 
public  men  for  sobriety  and  wisdom;  although 
it  is  something  of  a  truth  that  dullness  inspires 
confidence,  while  wit  is  feared  and  suspected, 
and  the  ability  to  discourse  platitude  and 
commonplace  is  the  best  ticket  to  favour  with 
the  mass. 

No  doubt  Marshall  had  a  keen  sense  of 
humour,  yet  in  court  I  doubt  whether  he  would 
have  bestowed  more  than  thetributeof  a  wintry 
smile  upon  those  familiar  ancient  jokes  that  are 
so  loudly  laughed  at  by  their  narrators.  And, 
as  he  always  remained  a  novice  in  the  field  of 
jocular  law,  so  he  never  strayed  from  the 
prescribed  path  to  indulge  in  primrose  dalliance 
in  general  literature.  He  never  adorned  his 
opinions  with  that  classical  lore  w^hich  adds 
variety  and  entertainment  to  the  most  ponder- 
ous legal  learning.  He  wrote  a  life  of  Washington 
in  five  large  volumes.  It  is  a  valuable  work  in 
some  respects,  yet  it  has  suffered  some  at  the 
hands  of  the  critics.  It  was  the  task  of  love 
and  respect,  yet  one  alien  to  his  great  talents. 

He  had  many  endearing  personal  qualities. 
In   great  men  these  often  attract  and   win  us 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      225 

far  more  than  their  important  actions.  Finer 
than  Waverly,  or  Ivanhoe,  finer  than  any  of 
those  heroic  shades  that  people  his  land  of 
dreams,  is  the  noble  spirit  of  the  Wizard  of  the 
North,  cheerfully  facing  adversity,  and  coining 
his  life  to  pay  his  debts.  Dante,  "Holding 
heart-break  at  bay  for  twenty  years,  not 
allowing  himself  to  die  until  his  task  was  done, ' ' 
is  greater  than  the  Divine  Comedy.  Lamb, 
"winning  his  way  with  sad  and  patient  soul 
through  evil  and  pain  and  strange  calamity," 
it  is  more  to  us  than  the  exqisite  Essays  of  Elia. 
We  love  the  man  because  he  ever  jested  lightly 
with  sorrow,  and  lightly  broke  her  ashen  crust, 
and  because  he  did  not  wax  old  in  the  evil 
shadows  of  circumstance.  Washington's  per- 
sonality is  greater  than  his  deeds.  What 
public  act  of  Lincoln  appeals  to  us  like  the 
pictures  we  have  of  that  homely  stooping  figure 
and  furrowed  face,  shadowed  and  softened  by 
the  vast  griefs  through  which  he  had  passed. 
Grant  was  never  dearer  to  this  people  than 
when  with  the  slow  agony  of  death  creeping 
over  him,  he  finished  his  last  task.  It  is  to  the 
man  that  we  give  our  first  and  best  allegiance, 
rather  than  to  the  soldier,  scholar  or  statesman. 
It  is  over  the  primal  traits  in  Marshall's 


226      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

character  that  we  may  wish  to  linger  longest 
and  not  over  the  dry  chronology  of  the  ency- 
clopaedias,— those  gigantic  tumuli,  wherein  has 
been  elaborately  deposited  the  mere  skeleton  of 
history.  Marshall's  leading  characteristics 
were  those  of  true  greatness, — simplicity  and 
directness,  with  an  entire  absence  of  pretence 
or  affectation.  He  never  made  it  possible  for 
any  man  to  speak  better  of  him  than  he 
deserved.  I  have  learned  from  the  veterans  of 
our  civil  war  that  the  crucible  of  the  soldier's 
life  tested  men's  metal,  and  speedily  determined 
whether  it  was  true  gold  or  pinchbeck.  The 
long  march  is  cold  and  wet,  the  hunger  and 
hardships  of  the  camp  where  comfort  was 
unknown,  tried  men  as  no  other  environment 
could  do.  The  good  fellow  of  the  street  or 
club,  or  of  the  social  circle  at  home,  as  a  soldier 
oftentimes  became  a  whining,  selfish  complainer, 
shirking  every  kindly  office  that  made  hardship 
bearable.  Marshall  was  thus  tested  and  not 
found  wanting.  Our  soldiers  suffered  incredible 
hardships  at  Valley  Forge.  The  \vinter  was 
very  cold  and  the  snow  deep,  and  they  were 
almost  naked,  and  without  shoes  or  blankets. 
Washington  said  of  this  time  of  trial,  —  "No 
history  now  extant  can  furnish  an  instance  of 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      227 

an  array  suffering  such  uncommon  hardships 
and  bearing  them  with  the  same  fortitude  and 
patience."  Part  of  the  time  the  army  was 
destitute  of  food.  Yet  there  was  not  lacking 
some  element  of  the  grotesque  to  cheer  their 
privations.  In  the  history  of  the  camp  at 
Valley  Forge,  there  are  strong  traces  of  the 
national  thirst  for  pie  which  even  then  seems  to 
have  been  unquenchable,  and  which  has  ever 
since  given  pie  a  dominating  influence  over  all 
more  effete  refections  throughout  our  common 
country.  We  read  that  the  neighbouring 
Dutchwomen  used  to  ride  into  camp  seated  on 
great  sacks  of  pies,  which  were  of  such  con- 
sistency, and  made  in  such  manner  as  that  they 
could  be  thrown  across  the  room,  and  yet  suffer 
not  the  slightest  disintegration.  The  historian 
says  that  these  adamantine  stratifications 
"were  considered  a  great  delicacy,  and  were 
much  enjoyed."  We  cannot  wonder  that  the 
soldiers  who  could  enjoy  these  pies  were  able  to 
endure  all  lesser  hardships,  and  we  can  even 
understand  how  they  might  cross  the  Delaware 
in  the  midst  of  floating  ice,  and  esteem  it  but  a 
holiday  pastime.  One  of  Marshall's  mess- 
mates says  of  his  conduct  at  this  time, — "He 
was  the  best  tempered  man  I  ever  knew.  During 


228      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

all  his  sufferings  at  Valley  Forge,  nothing 
discouraged,  nothing  disturbed  him.  If  he 
had  only  bread  to  eat,  it  was  just  as  well;  if 
only  meat,  it  made  no  difference.  If  any  of  the 
officers  murmured  at  their  deprivations,  he 
would  shame  them  by  good  natured  raillery,  or 
encourage  them  by  his  own  exuberance  of 
spirits.  He  was  an  excellent  companion,  and 
idolized  by  the  soldiers  and  his  brother  officers, 
whose  gloomy  hours  he  enlivened  by  his  inex- 
haustible fund  of  anecdote.  "  He  was  much 
esteemed  for  his  fairness,  and  acted  as  deputy 
advocate,  and  was  often  chosen  to  arbitrate 
differences  between  his  brother  officers.  He 
afterwards  modestly  attributed  his  success  at 
the  bar  to  the  friendship  of  his  soldier  comrades. 
They  found  that  republics  are  ungrateful,  and 
looked  on  him  as  their  spokesman.  He  never 
intrigued  for  political  preferment,  and  all  his 
honours  came  unsought  and  unbought.  His 
associates,  sometimes  not  too  kind  to  him,  he 
looked  upon  without  malice  or  uncharity.  He 
envied  no  man  and  disparaged  no  rival.  He 
bore: 

No  envy  of  another's  fame     *     *     * 
Nor  rustling-  heard  in  every  breeze 
The  laurels  of  Miltiades. 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      229 

Marshall  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1781 
and  at  once  rose  to  eminence,  first  in  Fauquier 
County,  and  thereafter  at  Richmond,  where  he 
moved.  There  were  able  lawyers  at  Richmond 
and  Marshall  soon  ranked  as  their  leader. 
Usually  the  young  lawyer  who  leaps  suddenly 
into  prominence,  does  so  because  of  some  art  of 
address  or  catch  of  oratory,  or  because  he  is 
apt  at  cultivating  and  winning  popular  favour. 
He  may,  withal,  it  is  true,  have  more  solid  and 
enduring  qualities,  that  will  in  any  event  bring 
him  ultimate  recognition.  But  it  is  the  showier 
and  more  pretentious  traits  that  many  times 
furnish  the  best  proofs  of  learning  to  the 
multitude.  With  these  alone,  the  mere  pre- 
tender will  often  pass  the  toiler,  who  may 
foolishly  think  that  it  is  only  hard  work  and 
merit  that  count.  The. smallest  modicum  of 
brains  and  learning,  if  accompanied  by  impud- 
ence and  push,  frequently  bring  more  speedy 
rewards  than  all  the  toils  of  the  midnight  lamp. 
Marshall's  early  fame  was  not  built  upon 
these  shifting  sands,  and  he  made  his  merit 
known  by  no  meretricious  arts. 

He  was  always  genial  and  talkative  enough 
for  all  the  offices  of  good  fellowship.  He  was 
no  dullard,  creating  by  reticence  the  seeming  of 


230      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

wisdom,  studiously  holding  his  tongue  that  he 
might  appear  to  hold  all  knowledge.  He  did 
not  aim  at  that  sententious  dullness,  at  those 
continuous  "brilliant  flashes  of  silence,  "  which 
some  men  cultivate  in  order  to  give  themselves 
a  factitious  learning  and  solidity. 

The  biographers  have  generally  insisted 
that  Marshall's  character  was  "unredeemed 
by  a  single  vice,  "  and  yet  I  cannot  but  believe 
that  he  had  an  abundance  of  good,  honest, 
hearty,  human  hatred  for  cant,  for  all  shams 
and  humbugs.  He  could  not  have  always  kept 
his  keen  wit  in  sheath,  when  he  saw  financial 
magnates — and  others,  paying  court  to  judges 
with  green  turtle  and  cold  bottles,  or  with  tips 
for  little  flyers  in  the  field  of  speculation ;  or 
when  he  saw  how  easy  it  was  for  judges'  sons 
to  have  thrust  into  their  raw  apprentice  hands 
the  retainers  of  powerful  corporations,  or  saw 
them  achieving  great  place  without  effort,  while 
their  fellow  novices  of  humbler  birth  were 
plodding  in  the  dust,  and  counting  with  their 
heart  throbs  the  troubled  years  that  separated 
them  from  fame.  Perhaps  we  are  "to  dumb 
forgetfullness  a  prey,  "  and  these  mysterious 
freaks  of  Fortune  never  did  happen  and  inspire 
cynic  mirth  on  this  round  globe,  but  in  distant 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      231 

spheres,  and  only  cognizant  to  us  through 
vagrant  dreams.  If  so,  will  she  of  sword  and 
scales  and  bandaged  eyes,  forgive  the  sin. 

We  who  now  see  our  nation  honoured  and 
respected  among  the  nations  of  the  earth; 
courted  and  flattered  by  kings  and  diplomats, 
and  any  alliance  with  it  held  in  high  esteem  ; 
its  ever  widening  power  extending  from  "lands 
of  snow  to  lands  of  sun,  "  can  hardly  imagine 
its  dependent  and  almost  helpless  condition  but 
a  little  more  than  one  hundred  years  ago.  It 
lay  broken  and  exhausted  by  the  Revolution, 
as  some  spent  swimmer  who  has  battled  long 
with  wind  and  tide,  and  at  last  drags  himself 
wearily  upon  the  shore,  victorious  over  death, 
but  without  strength  to  protect  himself  from 
further  dangers.  The  war  had  impoverished 
the  infant  colonies  beyond  conception,  and 
every  evil  force  in  society  was  unleashed  and  set 
free.  The  colonies  were  full  of  warring  factions, 
and  discord,  unrest,  and  suspicion  were  rampant 
everywhere.  Patrick  Henry  had  said  in  a 
supreme  burst  of  eloquence  in  the  first 
Congress, — "The  distinction  between  Vir- 
ginians, Pennsylvanians,  New  Yorkers  and 
New  Englanders,  is  no  more.  I  am  not  a 
Virginian,  I  am  an  American.  "     The  leaven  of 


232      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

this  sentiment  was  working  but  it  was  overlaid 
and  stifled  by  baser  passions.  The  Congress 
of  Delegates,  'soon  after  the  Revolution,  ceased 
to  have  any  power  for  good  and  became  merely 
an  arena  for  recriminations  and  fruitless  strife. 
It  was  often  without  a  quorum,  and  when  a 
quorum  was  present,  it  was  impotent  to  make 
treaties;  to  raise  money  to  meet  national 
obligations,  or  to  transact  business  of  any  kind. 
The  mother  country,  sullen  and  untractable  in 
defeat,  lent  no  helping  hand,  but  aided  rather 
in  embroiling  us  further.  Her  great  rival, 
France,  assumed  that  we  would  be  her  ally 
against  England,  because  of  the  aid  she  gave 
us  in  the  Revolution.  Her  representatives 
insulted  our  government  with  swelling  rodomon- 
tade, asserting  the  adoration  France  had  for 
freedom,  and  adjuring  us  to  join  France  in  a 
crusade  against  the  "tyrant  of  the  seas.  " 
Genet  came  here  from  France,  lawlessly  intent 
on  using  our  ports  as  depots  of  supplies  to 
make  war  on  England,  and  when  the  president 
refused  his  sanction  to  these  high  handed 
proceedings,  Genet  threatened  to  appeal  to  the 
American  people.  The  little  gods  who  preside 
over  the  comedies  of  nations  must  have  had 
great  mirth  over  the  grotesque  vanity  of  France, 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      233 

yet  in  the  non-age  of  freedom,  thus  reproaching 
a  race  that  held  cherished  memories  of  Runny- 
mede,  of  Preston  Pans  and  Marston  Moor,  of 
the  Long  Parliament,  of  the  trial  of  the  Seven 
Bishops,  and  of  the  death  and  outlawry  of 
tyrant    kings. 

In  spite  of  our  grateful  declamation,  we 
know  that  the  aid  of  France  was  not  extended 
to  us  in  our  hour  of  trouble,  disinterestedly,  or 
from  pure  love  of  freedom  and  human  rights. 
It  was  upon  consideration  and  for  an  antici- 
pated equivalent.  To  say  this  we  need  not 
detract  from  the  fame  of  the  immortal 
La  Fayette,  but  the  ruling  powers  who  sent 
him  here  to  aid  us,  hated  freedom  with  the 
hatred  of  tyrants.  They  held  with  iron 
despotism  that  inheritance  of  tyranny  under 
which  France  had  groaned  for  centuries.  The 
example  that  they  helped  us  to  give  to  the  world 
was  doubtless  one  cause  of  their  own  undoing. 
But  a  few  years  after  our  struggle  was  ended, 
their  day  of  retribution  came  and  their  doom 
was  written  on  the  pages  of  history  with  bloody 
hands.  In  that  atonement  of  blood  the  debt 
of  a  thousand  years  of  despotism  was  but 
poorly  paid.  It  was  the  leaders  of  that 
unlicensed    mob,    the   legitimate    successor    of 


234      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

oppreSvsion,  that  intrigued  here  against 
England.  The}^  could  claim  no  natural  alliance 
with  us,  for  Frank  and  Saxon  never  yet  have 
been  blood-brothers.  Their  seeming  love  for 
us  was  but  another  form  of  hatred  for  England. 
It  is  a  curious  coincidence  that  the  love  of 
France  for  England's  enemies  has  always  been 
exactly  measured  by  her  hatred  of  England. 
She  was  baffled  in  her  attempt  to  communicate 
to  us  that  disease  of  national  hysteria  by  which 
she  has  been  smitten  since  her  revolution.  Since 
then  it  has  needed  but  little  to  bring  on  the 
worst  attacks.  Boulanger,  the  Dreyfus  Case, 
or  the  fermenting  muck  of  Paris,  may  any  of 
them  on  occasion  be  sufficient  excitants.  When 
none  of  these  are  present  in  active  eruption, 
there  sits  perfidious  Albion,  ruler  of  the  waves, 
holding  "dominion  over  palm  and  pine,  "  cooly 
surveying  with  good-natured  contempt  her 
mercurial  rival ;  or  there  is  Germany,  phlegmatic 
and  unmoved  behind  her  vast  military  equip- 
ment ;  or,  there  is  Russia,  adroitly  patting  the 
hysterical  patient  on  the  back,  setting  her 
on  England  and  always  holding  before  her 
eyes  the  hope  of  an  alliance  that  never  comes. 
I  will  admit  that  we  have  slight  attacks  of 
hysteria  at  regularly  recurring  intervals,  but  we 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      235 

have  the  comminfrled  blood  of  Latin,  Saxon 
and  Teuton,  to  keep  the  balance  true.  Ours 
comes  every  four  years,  and  when  the  fit  is  on 
us  I  expect  that  my  neighbours  will  call  me 
an  anarchist,  a  traitor,  or  a  plutocrat.  But  this 
reviling  is  done  in  a  Pickwickian  sense,  and  as 
a  necessary  part  of  the  game  of  politics.  When 
the  kindergarten  madness  effervesces,  we  jog 
along  very  comfortably  together.  After  Citizen 
Genet  had  been  driven  out,  a  state  of  war 
between  this  country  and  France,  practically 
existed.  Although  at  first  there  was  a  con- 
siderable French  party  here,  indignation  grew 
apace  under  the  repeated  insults  of  France,  and 
preparations  for  war  were  made.  Reprisals  on 
French  shipping  were  ordered  and  Washington 
was  made  commander-in-chief.  Finally,  in  the 
interests  of  peace  a  special  commission  of  three 
eminent  men  was  appointed  to  go  to  France. 
Marshall  was  one  of  the  members  of  this 
commission.  It  w^as  insultingly  received  in 
France  and  it  is  a  matter  of  history  that 
Talleyrand  approached  the  commissioners  for  a 
bribe.  They  finally  left  France  in  bitter 
indignation.  The  lines  of  the  poet, — 
Talk  not  of  freedom  to  the  Franks, 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells. 


236      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

might  have  been  written  for  the  admonition  of 
the  commissioners.  The  trouble  with  France 
was  finally  compromised  and  war  averted,  but 
it  left  with  us  bitter  distrust  that  gratitude 
could  not  wholly  cure,  and  also  left  a  luxuriant 
crop  of  claims  arising  out  of  the  spoliation  of 
our  commerce  by  France.  Many  of  these  are 
still  rotting  in  mildewed  ease  in  our  Court  of 
Claims,  a  rich  blessing  for  our  profession,  and 
a  painful  legacy  for  the  posterity  of  the  original 
claimants,  even  to  the  tenth  generation.  By 
skillful  nursing,  they  had  assumed  aldermanic 
proportions,  and  a  venerable  dignity,  when  the 
southern  mule  and  cotton  bale  of  loyal  parentage 
and  ownership,  were  yet  babes  in  the  arms  of 
the  lawyers.  Let  us  hope  that  together  they 
will  continue  to  infest  the  watches  of  the  moon 
and  gladden  the  hearts  of  our  professional 
successors  for  many  generations. 

On  his  return  to  this  country,  Marshall 
was  received  with  acclamations.  He  was  given 
a  public  dinner  by  both  houses  of  Congress, 
'*as  an  evidence  of  affection  for  his  person,  and 
of  their  grateful  approbation  of  the  patriotic 
firmness  with  which  he  had  sustained  the 
dignity  of  his  country  during  his  important 
mission.  "     In  1798  he  was  offered  the  position 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      237 

of  associate  justice  of  the  Supreme  Court,  but 
declined  it,  his  chief  reason  for  so  doing  being 
that  be  had  just  been  nominated  for  Congress. 
He  was  elected,  but  resigned  his  seat  to  accept 
a  position  in  the  cabinet  of  President  Adams. 
On  January  31,  1801,  he  was  appointed  Chief 
JuvStice  of  the  Supreme  Court,  which  position 
he  held  until  his  death,  July  6,  1835.  I  wnll 
not  dwell  upon  the  full  chronology  of  the 
honours  that  were  bestow^ed  upon  him ;  they 
are  known  to  every  school-boy.  Whether  the 
place  he  filled  was  great  or  small  in  the 
estimation  of  men,  he  made  it  great  by  the 
strength  of  his  personality. 

There  were  strong  rivalries  among  the 
public  men  of  Marshall's  day.  He  and 
Jefferson  w-ere  never  at  harmony,  although 
Jefferson  was  the  more  critical  and  censorious 
of  the  two.  In  his  way  he  was  as  great  as 
Marshall,  yet  with  some  minor  weaknesses  of 
character,  not  apparent  in  Marshall.  As 
the  author  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
and  in  the  part  he  played  in  the  drama  of  the 
Revolution  and  in  the  reconstruction  period 
following  it,  he  was  second  only  to  the  great 
Washington,  in  the  estimation  of  the  people. 
He  was  bold  and  daring  in  his  views,  and  more 


238      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

far-sighted  than  any  of  his  associates  except 
Hamilton.  He  had  the  paradoxical  personality 
of  a  democratic  aristocrat.  In  social  position 
he  was  a  Virginia  country  gentleman,  with 
every  inducement  to  respect  his  class  and  uphold 
its  privileges.  Yet  he  was  always  in  rebellion 
against  this  class,  and  manifested  a  passionate 
love  of  the  people  and  a  pure  democracy  from 
which  every  trace  of  fuedalism  and  patrician 
privilege  should  be  eliminated.  In  Virginia,  he 
proposed  measures  for  the  disestablishment  of 
the  church  and  for  complete  religious  freedom, 
and  abolishing  the  laws  of  entail  and  primo- 
geniture. Himself  a  slaveholder,  he  hated 
slavery  as  an  aristocratic  institution,  and  he 
advocated  a  bill  forbidding  the  importation  of 
slaves  into  Virginia.  When  Congress  was 
legislating  for  the  Northwest  Territory,  he 
framed  a  clause  interdicting  slavery  in  this 
territory  after  the  year  1800,  in  almost  the  exact 
language  of  our  Thirteenth  Amendment.  His 
theories  were  almost  diametrically  opposed  to 
those  of  his  great  rival  Hamilton.  The  cleavage 
line  between  them  became  strongly  marked 
when  they  were  together  in  Washington's 
cabinet.  From  that  time  on  party  alignment  was 
that    of   Federalist  and  Democrat;    of   States 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TLMES      239 

Rights  and  Centralized  Government.  Jefferson 
believed  ardently  in  the  people;  Hamilton  had 
a  certain  distrust  of  popular  government, 
founded  on  the  belief  that  it  would  never  realize 
the  anticipations  of  its  advocates,  and  would  of 
necessity  have  many  defects  and  weaknesses. 
He  believed  in  a  strong  national  government, 
with  power  to  enforce  all  measures  for  its  well- 
being,  even  against  the  will  of  the  states. 
Jefferson  believed  in  States  Rights  so  called. 
Practically,  he  proved  that  he  was  ready  to  go 
far  in  opposition  to  his  own  theories.  Jefferson 
and  his  following  believed  that  the  Harailtonian 
view  would  lead  to  the  destruction  of  the  rights 
of  the  states.  Washington  seemed  to  occupy 
middle  ground  between  these  two  opposing 
schools,  with  an  inclination  towards  the 
Federalist  side.  As  soon  as  peace  came,  he  saw 
that  the  confederation  had  no  governmental 
power.  He  spoke  of  the  contempt  that  would 
would  be  felt  for  us  abroad,  when  it  was  seen 
that  the  states  were  sovereigns  or  not  as  best 
suited  their  purposes;  "in  a  word,  that  we 
were  one  nation  to-day,  and  thirteen  to- 
morrow." 

Marshall  held  to  this  opinion,    and   no 
doubt     much     of     his     labour     thereafter    in 


240      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

construing  the  powers  of  the  national  govern- 
ment, was  inspired  by  his  experience  and 
observation  of  this  period  of  weakness  and 
imbecility.  The  states  were  jealous  of  each 
other  and  jealous  of  any  government  they 
might  jointly  establish.  Marshall  was  really 
a  conservative  Federalist,  more  of  a  Democrat 
than  Washington,  not  so  much  of  a  Democrat 
as  Jefferson.  While  Washington  lived,  Hamilton 
moulded  the  new  government  his  way.  Jefferson 
w^as  the  greater  of  the  two  in  his  ability  to  win 
and  hold  the  people.  He  harmonized  himself 
with  them,  and  was  always  ready  to  go  with 
them  a  little,  in  order  to  induce  them  to  go  with 
him  as  far  as  he  wished.  He  followed,  in  order 
that  he  might  lead.  Out  of  power  he  was  a 
radical,  the  terror  of  those  who  believed  in  the 
established  order;  in  power  he  was  a  careful 
and  prudent  conservative,  acting  in  the  main 
wisely  and  justly.  He  presents  in  this,  not  the 
only  instance  in  history  of  the  sobering  influence 
of  power  and  responsibility  upon  the  radical, 
who  before  was  a  volcano  of  fierce  and  startling 
declamation.  When  he  became  president  he 
speedily  recovered  from  his  fear  of  the  dangers 
of  a  strong  government.  In  some  ways  he 
seemed  to  have  had  a  marvelous  foresight.     He 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      241 

sent  the  Louis  and  Clark  expedition  to  explore 
the  territory  northwest  of  the  Louisiana 
Purchase,  in  1804,  and  thus  laid  the  foundation 
for  our  claims  to  the  country  on  the  Columbia 
River.  He  saw  at  least  some  of  the  potentialities 
of  the  Louisiana  Purchase,  and  closed  the 
bargain  for  it  with  the  First  Consul,  hurriedly 
and  secretly.  This  was  an  act  of  daring 
statesmanship  that  collided  directly  with  the 
States  Rights  doctrine  as  to  the  limited  powers 
of  the  Federal  Government.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  Hamilton,  in  Jefferson's  place  would 
have  dared  to  go  as  far,  for  it  was  thought  to 
be  an  exercise  of  power  outside  of  the  constitu- 
tion. Jefferson  could  so  act,  because  he  knew 
his  own  power  with  the  people  and  that  he 
could  justify  his  course  to  them.  As  to  this 
and  other  measures,  long  before  his  administra- 
tion closed,  we  find  Jefferson  sitting  in  the  seat 
of  the  Federalist  and  not  afraid.  It  is  said  that 
he  inspired  the  Kentucky  and  Virginia 
Resolutions,  which  declared  the  extreme  doctrine 
of  States  Rights,  yet  during  his  administration, 
he  was  so  busy  building  up  the  powers  of 
government  that  he  overlooked  them.  At  the 
same  time  he  was  criticising  Marshall  severely 
for  the  Federalistic  trend  of  his  decisions.    The 


242      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

discredit  attached  to  the  Alien  and  Sedition 
Laws,  and  the  success  of  Jefferson's  administra- 
tion, caused  the  slow  disappearance  of  the 
Federalist  party.  Its  existence  was  in  a 
measure  useless  for  its  work  was  being  done  by 
the  Democratic  Party.  But  the  ghostly 
Cassandra  of  States  Rights  would  not  down. 
It  croaked  balefully,  first  with  one  party  and 
then  with  the  other.  Of  all  propagandas,  it 
has  been  the  most  mercenary  and  changeable. 
Now  it  turns  up  in  New  England,  now  in 
Pennsylvania,  now  in  South  Carolina,  and  then 
again  in  highly  virtuous  Wisconsin.  It  presided 
at  the  birth  of  the  Kentucky  and  Virginia 
Resolutions;  it  was  the  leading  spirit  of  the 
Whiskey  Rebellion  in  Pennsylvania;  it  shrieked 
with  the  New  England  Federalists,  in  the  days 
of  the  Hartford  Convention  when  Massachusetts 
was  seriously  contemplating  seceding  from  the 
Union ;  it  defied  Jackson  in  South  Carolina, 
and  inspired  the  nullification  of  the  Fugitive 
Slave  Law  in  Wisconsin.  Democrat,  Federalist, 
Republican  and  Whig, — the  advocate  of  States 
Rights  and  the  advocate  of  a  strong  national 
government,  have  alternated,  and  veered  and 
shifted,  and  stolen  each  others'  places,  and 
have    kept    countenance    through   it   all   with 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      243 

marvelous  effrontery.  Sometimes  this  mag-nil- 
oquent  phrase  played  comedy,  sometimes 
tragedy.  The  last  act  of  comedy  that  we  need 
consider  here,  is  Jackson  issuing-  his  proclama- 
tion against  the  nullifiers  of  South  Carolina, 
and  threatening  to  hang  them  if  they  persisted 
in  their  course,  and  being  complimented  therefor 
by  all  the  old  Federalists,  who  had  thus  seen 
the  fullness  of  national  salvation. 

Disraeli  said  of  the  wars  and  hatreds  of 
nations,  "All  is  race."  So  in  the  world  of 
politics,  all  is  phrase.  In  the  Kingdom  of 
Fools,  the  phrase-monger  is  the  chief  potentate, 
and  the  world  of  politics  being  the  main 
province  of  this  kingdom,  the  fools  who  infest 
it  aver  that  all  wisdom  and  righteousness  is 
vested  in  the  twaddle  of  a  phrase.  Thus 
presidents  are  made  and  unmade  by  a  shibboleth 
of  empty  words.  States  Rights  was  for  long 
a  strutting  phrase,  the  pet  of  politicians,  and 
the  god  of  both  fools  and  knaves  for  three 
quarters  of  a  century;  yet  always  lik'e  a  tale 
told  by  an  idiot,  "full  of  sound  and  fury^ 
signifying, — nothing.  "  As  a  toy  to  charm  the 
people  it  was  reasonably  harmless  at  first. 
Finally  it  became  linked  with  the  slave-power 
in  hideous    brotherhood    of  crime  and  shame, 


244      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

and  they  died  together,  leaving  as  mute 
witnesses  to  the  power  of  a  phrase,  a  million 
graves.  These  things  are  suggested  in  passing ; 
they  help  to  enflesh  the  dry  bones  of  history, 
and  to  quicken  them  with  life.  Much  of  this 
history  proves  how  rare  and  precious  and  how 
remote  from  mortal  ken  is  the  jewel  of 
consistency;  like  the  Holy  Grail  of  Knight 
Errantry,  that  none  might  secure  save  the 
pure  in  heart. 

Through  the  turbulent  unrest  of  this  early 
time,  Marshall  toiled,  building  and  strength- 
ening the  edifice  of  constitutional  law.  We 
cannot  look  back  to  one  of  his  decisions 
construing  the  powers  of  the  states  or  of  the 
national  government,  and  wish  that  it  had 
been  different.  He  was  a  son  of  Virginia,  the 
slave-holding  home  of  States  Rights,  yet  his 
construction  of  the  constitution  forged  for  us 
the  mightiest  weapons  with  which  to  free  the 
slaves,  and  to  smite  into  cureless  ruin  the 
doctrine  that  a  state  might  dissolve  the  Union. 
He  went  upon  the  bench  at  a  time  when  the 
right  of  the  courts  to  nullify  laws  because  of 
their  unconstitutionality,  was  but  reluctantly 
conceded.  He  was  not  the  pioneer  of  this  view, 
although  he  became  its  most  eminent  champion. 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      245 

In  1786,  in  Rhode  Island,  the  court  held  an  act 
of  the  legislature  void  for  this  reason.  For 
this  the  judges  were  impeached,  but  were  not 
removed,  although  the  legivslature,  refusing  to 
re-elect  them,  put  more  pliant  judges  in  their 
places.  In  1803,  in  Ohio,  a  statute  was  held 
unconstitutional,  and  this  led  to  the  impeach- 
ment of  the  judges,  but  they  were  acquitted. 
In  1795,  in  Pennsylyania,  in  the  United  States 
Court,  a  statute  which  attempted  to  divest  one 
man  of  his  property  and  give  it  to  another,  was 
held  unconstitutional.  In  1798,  in  the  same 
state,  it  was  held  that  a  law,  contrary  to  the 
first  principles  of  the  social  compact,  was  void, 
as  not  being  a  rightful  exercise  of  the  legislative 
power.  This  broad  principle  has  been 
sanctioned  by  the  Wisconsin  Supreme  Court, 
in  Durkee  vs.  Janesville,  28  Wisconsin  464. 
Marbury  vs.  Madison  was  the  first  case  in 
which  Marshall  refers  to  this  power  in  the 
judiciary  as  an  established  rule.  Thereafter  he 
supported  it  with  all  the  ardour  and  strength 
of  his  great  genius.  It  has  been  the  priceless 
adjunct  of  free  government,  the  mighty  shield 
of  the  rights  and  liberties  of  the  citizen.  It  has 
been  many  times  invoked  to  save  him  from 
illegal  punishment,   to  save  his  property  from 


246      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

the  greed  of  unscrupulous  enemies,  and  to  save 
his  political  rights  from  the  unbridled  license  of 
victorious  political  opponents  controlling  legisla- 
tive bodies.  Nor  does  It  now  sleep,  except  as  a 
sword,  dedicated  to  a  rlg-hteous  cause,  sleeps  In 
its  scabbard.  We  had  never  more  need  of  it. 
The  shop-keeper  of  petty  instinct  who  desires 
to  crush  out  business  rivals  or  to  keep  non- 
resident competitors  out  of  the  state;  the 
producer  who  seeks  to  make  a  market  for  his 
own  wares  by  taxing-  a  rival  commodity  out  of 
existence;  the  suitor  who  tries  his  cause  in  the 
legislature,  in  order  that  he  may  secure  there 
that  which  the  courts  cannot  in  justice  give 
him, — and  all  unworthy  covetors  of  their 
neighbour's  lands  or  goods,  are  now,  as  ever, 
shameless  constituents  of  our  social  structure, 
calling  for  the  constant  vigilance  of  the  courts 
in  the  protection  of  constitutional  rights.  Nor 
have  we  yet  reached  the  perfection  of  constitu- 
tional government.  We  cannot  attain  it  until 
we  have  cut  down  the  Upas  Tree  of  Privilege 
to  the  very  roots  and  have  torn  the  roots  from 
out  the  soil.  It  is  an  alien  grow^th,  our  legacy 
from  the  Dark  Ages ;  hoary  and  venerable  with 
years,  sanctioned  by  custom  and  tradition,  its 
worst  excesses  elevated  by  its  worshippers  into 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      247 

religious  rites;  watered  and  nurtured  by  the 
perennial  greed  and  selfishness  of  man;  out- 
lasting all  other  change,  ancj  all  other 
governmental  tyranny,  and  escaping  by 
unfortunate  mischance  to  this  day  the  Ithuriel 
spear  of  Freedom.  We  need  additional 
constitutional  guaranties  that  will  give  to  every 
citizen  the  right  to  prevent  by  appropriate 
remedy  legislative  grants  of  gifts  and  bonuses 
out  of  public  moneys  to  private  business 
enterprises,  and  to  prevent  the  gifts  of  public 
franchises  that  are  the  property  of  the  whole 
people.  Until  we  have  thus  perfected  free 
institutions,  we  may  well  feel  the  shame  of  the 
prophet,  of  whom  it  is  said, — "And  he  went  a 
day's  journey  into  the  wilderness,  and  sat 
himself  down  under  a  juniper  tree;  and  he 
said, — Now  O  Lord,  take  away  my  life,  for  I 
am  not  better  than  my  fathers.  " 

This  anniversary  of  honor  will  fix  our 
attention  anew  on  those  fundamental  principles 
upon  which  free  and  equal  government  must 
rest.  The  opinion  of  the  bar  will  go  far  to 
secure  such  new  guaranties  of  the  rights  of  the 
citizen;  and  such  new  limitations  on  the  power  of 
those  who  band  together  to  use  government 
for  their  own  selfish  ends,  as  may  be  necessary. 


248      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

Tyranny  has  ever  a  new  face.  It  now 
gains  by  guile  and  stealth  what  it  once  seized 
brutally  and  with  the  strong  hand.  Every 
score  of  years  we  need  a  new  Runnymede, 
where  we  may  beard  our  captains  of  Privilege, 
and  wrest  from  them  a  new  charter  of  rights. 
I  have  no  fear  of  the  conventional  anarchists. 
Free  speech  is  the  best  cure  for  their  activities, 
as  it  is  the  best  safety  valve  for  the  escape  and 
dissipation  of  all  the  humors  in  the  body  politic. 
But  for  the  greater  anarchists  who  sit  enthroned 
in  high  places  and  purchase  legislatures  and 
municipal  officers,  and  who  are  insidiously 
subverting  our  liberties,  and  filching  from  our 
pockets,  what  is  not  theirs,  we  need  all  our 
vigilance.  Freedom  and  equality  have  a  deeper 
meaning  than  the  frothy  interpretations  of  our 
professional  flag- wavers, — especially  such  of 
them  as  wave  the  old  flag  with  one  hand,  and 
reach  for  the  public  treasury  with  the  other. 
Unjust  laws  which  unjustly  and  unequally 
distribute  the  wealth,  earned  by  the  toil  of  our 
people  are  not  a  part  of  the  inheritance  received 
by  us  from  the  fathers  of  the  republic.  They 
are  of  the  bastard,  changeling  brood  of 
Oppression.  Our  real  greatness  lies  not  in  the 
vast  bulk  of  our  swollen  census  reports,  where 


I 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      249 

we  keep  the  toll  of  our  ag-gregate  wealth,  for 
the  debit  side  of  the  account  will  show  that 
through  legislation  born  of  greed,  a  few  have 
gained  more  than  thrift  and  industry  can 
rightfully  give  them. 

Of  what  avail  the  plow  or  sail, 
Or  land  or  life  if  freedom  fail? 
But  recently  new  responsibilities  have  come 
to  us  that  must  be  met  wisely  and  justly.  They 
call  for  the  talent  of  the  statesman,  not  of  the 
politician.  I  do  not  assume  to  make  a  standard 
of  conscience  for  others,  but  only  to  be  a  poor 
keeper  of  my  own,  yet  from  the  beginning  of 
the  war  in  the  Phillipines,  I  have  been  one  of 
those  of  an  opposite  political  faith  to  the 
president,  who  have  felt  that  it  was  our  duty 
to  uphold  the  administration  in  carrying  on 
this  war.  For  our  country  is  nearer  to  us  than 
our  politics;  its  flag  is  ours,  its  battles  and  its 
honour  are  ours,  no  matter  who  may  live  in  the 
White  House,  or  who  may  hold  prate  and 
debate  in  our  two  houses  of  palaver.  So  we 
have  felt  that  our  armies  must  put  down  armed 
resistance  to  our  authority,  at  whatever  cost  in 
blood  and  treasure.  As  Americans  we  should 
stultify  ourselves  by  allowing  any  political 
convention,   or  any  partisan  considerations  to 


250      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

swerve  us  from  this  course.  When  our  fellow 
citizens  return  from  fighting  our  battles,  they 
cannot  shame  us  with  the  bitter  reproach  that 
we  fired  at  them  from  the  rear.  Under  the 
inspirations  of  our  mighty  theme,  I  have 
thought  best  to  refer  to  some  of  the  weighty 
problems  that  are  pressing  upon  us. — the 
weightiest  that  we  have  met  since  the  slave- 
power  went  down  in  battle  thunder  and  flame. 
Whether  it  was  wise  to  take  our  island 
possessions,  depends  upon  how  wisely  we 
execute  our  trust  towards  the  simple  and 
dependent  peoples  who  have  confided  in  our 
integrity.  Shall  we  generously  share  with 
them  our  destiny,  or  shall  we  only  allow  them 
to  come  to  our  father's  house  as  step-children 
and  poor  relations?  Shall  we  keep  them  in  the 
vestibule  of  the  temple  of  liberty,  while  we 
gather  close  to  the  altar?  We  have  placed  our 
own  fundamental  rights  in  the  constitution, 
where  no  chance  or  change  can  destroy  them  ; 
shall  theirs  be  as  highly  placed,  or  shall  they 
be  cast  out  on  the  shifting  cnrrent  of  our 
politics,  to  be  the  sport  and  mock  of  the  time, 
mere  bondmen  of  the  fickle  grace  and  favour  of 
our  changing  political  dynasties?  If  American 
manhood  still  remain  clothed  in  its  full  nobility 


JOHN  xMARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      251 

it  will  assuredly  not  bestow  the  rights  of  freedom 
with  miser  care  on  these  wards  of  our 
civilization.  An  ex-president  in  a  near-by  state, 
who  has  proved  that  an  ex-president  may  be  a 
statesmen,  and  not  a  mere  oracle  of  common- 
place, says  of  this  matter,  —  "It  has  been  said 
that  the  flash  of  Dewey's  guns  in  Manila  Bay, 
revealed  to  the  American  people  a  new  mission. 
I  like  to  think  of  them  as  revealing  the  same 
old  mission  that  we  read  in  the  flash  of 
Washington's  guns  at  Yorktown.  God  forbid 
that  the  day  should  ever  come,  when  in  the 
American  mind  the  thought  of  man  as  a 
'consumer,  '  shall  submerge  the  old  American 
thought  of  man  as  a  creature  of  God,  endowed 
with   'unalienable  rights. '  " 

This  observance  will  surely  lead  us  to  a 
greater  respect  for  fundamental  rights. 
Marshall  watched  beside  constitutional 
government  on  this  continent  in  its  very  cradle- 
time.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that  because 
of  his  fostering  care,  it  has  defied  the  mutations 
of  Time,  the  struggles  of  a  nation  in  arms,  and 
all  the  storms  of  war  and  peace,  until  now  in 
its  mid-noon  splendour,  it  is  an  example  to 
the  whole  earth.  Those  who  fear  for  the 
perpetuity    of    American    institutions,    if   they 


252      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

will  read  well  our  history  need  not  be 
disma3^ed  over  the  dangers  that  lurk  along-  our 
pathway.  The  rocking  pine  that  has  stood 
before  the  whirlwind,  does  not  fall  prostrate 
before  the  summer  breeze.  If  the  Union  could 
grow  out  of  the  warring  elements  of  the 
Colonial  Confederation  ;  if  it  could  survive  the 
evil  days  that  followed  its  establishment,  when 
its  enemies  were  straining  its  untried  strength; 
if  it  could  acquire  and  absorb  peacefully  the 
vast  territory  west  of  the  Mississippi ;  if  it  could 
endure  through  the  hell  of  human  slavery,  and 
through  the  dreadful  war  that  made  our  land 
one  great  charnel  house,  and  finally  spring 
stronger  and  wiser  from  the  shock  and 
dismemberment  of  that  war,  it  surely  cannot 
come  to  wreck  because  of  this  or  that  policy  of 
protection  or  free  trade  or  finance,  or,  because 
we  may  grasp,  even  though  unwisely,  new  lands 
beyond  our  ocean  boundaries.  Having  endured 
so  much  it  surely  can  endure  little.  It  has 
firmly  withstood  both  foreign  and  domestic 
war  and  the  machinations  of  bitter  and  powerful 
enemies  both  at  home  and  abroad;  it  cannot 
be  that  any  pigmy  peril  will  shatter  it.  It  has 
lived  through  the  valley  and  the  shadow  of 
death;      it     stands     now     in     the     open,     in 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      253 

unshadowed  dig-nity  and  power,  where  every 
wind  of  heaven  brings  it  favour.  So  I  would 
say,  let  us  be  not  afraid.  For  us  who  believe 
in  and  trust  the  American  people,  the  trifling- 
contentions  of  heated  political  campaigns  light 
no  danger  signals  that  we  can  regard.  These 
things  are  but  for  a  day;  our  destiny  lies  with 
the  centuries.  We  have  always  with  us  the 
great  covenant  of  our  faith,  and  through  storm 
and  confusion,  the  wisdom  of  John  Marshall 
shines  forth  like  the  light-house  beacon  that 
guards  the  seas.  Let  it  be  our  mission  to  see 
that  no  cunning  hand  shall  undo  his  work,  and 
that  no  pretence  of  expediency  and  no  clamour 
of  the  opportunist,  shall  be  allowed  to  wring  a 
paltering  decision  from  our  highest  tribunal 
and  thus  loosen  the  bonds  of  our  respect  for  it. 
The  argument  of  policy  and  expediency  never 
weighed  with  him ;  let  us  also  be  deaf  to  such 
Ignoble  considerations.  For  over  thirty  years 
he  expounded  with  jealous  fidelity  the  charter 
of  our  rights;  let  us  expound  it  with  like  fidelity 
through  our  span  of  years.  If  we  as  lawyers 
shall  refuse  to  take  our  convictions  ready-made 
from  party  platforms ;  if  we  shall  remain 
unmoved  In  the  midst  of  party  faction,  holding 
fast  to  the  unchanging  verities  that    were   so 


254      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

dear  to  him;  if  we  shall  refuse  to  yield  servile 
approval  to  judicial  decisions  inspired  by 
prejudice  or  popular  clamour,  or  rendered  at 
infamous  political  behest,  or  upon  careless  or 
insufficient  consideration,  but  fearlessly  maintain 
that  independence  which  is  the  grandest 
tradition  of  the  bar,  then  indeed  shall  we  be 
worthy  pupils  of  the  great  pioneer  jurist  whose 
life  work  is  our  priceless  inheritance. 

And  now  the  grateful  task  which  you  have 
so  kindly  and  generously  given  me,  is  finished. 
The  thronging  inspirations  of  this  work  and  of 
this  hour,  will  not  soon  depart  from  me.  I  feel 
still  that  moving  awe  and  veneration  which 
must  accompany  him  who  walks  where  heroes 
sleep.  It  has  been  a  dear  and  valued  privilege 
for  me  to  add  my  portion  to  the  great  sum  of 
eulogy,  which  this  day  brings  to  the  memory  of 
John  Marshall.  His,  was  the  rounded  and 
perfect  life,  of  more  than  Roman  virtue  and 
manhood;  his,  the  reward,  richer  than  that 
bestowed  upon  great  kings  who  sleep  at 
Westminster.  Divine  Providence  generously 
gave  him  a  greater  length  of  years  than  that 
usually  alotted  to  man,  that  his  work  might  be 
well  done.  Upon  his  grave  at  Richmond  we 
place     as     great     a     tribute     as     affectionate 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      255 

remembrance  ever  paid  to  man.  As  was  said 
of  New  England's  greatest  son,  so  we  may  say 
of  Marshall  : 

In  toil  he  lived,  in  peace  he  died. 
When  life's  full  cycle  was  complete. 
Put  off  his  robes  of  power  and  pride 
And  laid  them  at  his  Master's  feet. 


NOTE 

Among  the  comments  made  since  the 
publication  of  the  first  edition  of  this  book, 
there  are  portions  of  two  letters  which  may  be 
of  interest  to  the  rsader. 

Mr.  George  R.  Peck  of  Chicago  says: 

*  *  *  One  of  the  finest  essays  in  the 
book,  in  my  judg-ment,  is  the  one  on 
"Americanism."  It  is  a  fitting-  rebuke  to 
those  who  suppose  that  our  literary  diet 
should  be  entirely  American.     *     *     * 

But  I  cannot  forg-ive  you  for  the 
contemptous  way  in  which  you  speak  of  "The 
Man  Without  a  Country."  I  believe  it  to  be 
absolutely  classic, — a  little  classic  of  course, 
but  yet  a  classic  that  will  be  read  a  thousand 
years  from  now.  It  is  of  no  consequence 
that  Aaron  Burr,  who  lured  poor  Philip 
Nolan  into  his  troubles,  escaped  punishment. 
Burr  was  tried  by  the  civil  courts,  while 
Nolan,  of  course  a  purely  fictitious 
character,    was    tried    under    the    harsher 

256 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      257 

procedure  of  a  military  court.  It  is  an 
unreasonable  story,  but  not  more  unreason- 
able than  all  the  great  stories  that  have 
charmed  the  world.  It  is  pure  fiction,  but  in 
my  judgment  the  noblest  short  story  ever 
written.  I  remember  the  first  time  I  read  it 
as  I  lay  in  the  trenches  in  front  of  the  enemy, 
and  how  I  then  resolved  to  stand  by  the 
United  States  forevermore.  I  believe  it  was 
worth  a  hundred  regiments  to  the  Union 
cause.  It  was  a  lesson  to  the  young-  soldiers 
who  were  carrying  the  flag,  and  made  them 
understand  the  miserable  condition  of  a  man 
who  could  be  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  no 
country. 

But  I  do  not  rest  my  opinion  solely  on 
the  patriotic  lesson  inculcated.  As  a  piece  of 
pure  literature,  of  mere  art,  I  think  it  without 
an  equal  among  short  stories.  It  has  always 
seemed  to  me  that  some  sort  of  inspiration 
must  have  dropped  into  the  heart  of  Edward 
Everett  Hale  when  he  wrote  it.  You  may 
think  this  extravagant  language,  but  you 
must  admit  that  your  own  condemnation  of 
the  story  is  quite  as  much  so.  It  is  not  a 
question  whether  Philip  Nolan's  sentence 
was  too  severe.     I  should  be  likely  to  agree 


258      CRITICAL     CONFESSIONS 

with  you  as  to  that.  But  the  question  is 
whether  it  is  not  a  fine  piece  of  literary  work, 
of  artistic  work,  of  such  work  as  only  once 
or  twice  in  a  g-eneration  is  done  by  any  author. 

I  am  not  much  g-iven  to  hysterics.  I  have 
read  "The  Man  Without  a  Country"  perhaps 
a  hundred  times,  and  I  have  never  read  it 
without  tears.  Can  it  be  that  a  story  which 
can  produce  such  an  effect,  is  only  interesting- 
and  instructive  for  fifteen-year-olds? 

I  have  said  this  about  "The  Man  Without 
a  Country"  because  you  and  I  are  friends, 
and  have  a  rig-ht  to  differ.  There  is  hardly 
a  thing-  in  your  volume  to  which  I  could  not 
subscribe,  except  what  you  said  about  "The 
Man  Without  a  Country,  "  and  I  cannot  g-ive 
you  my  views  without  frankly  saying-  that  I 
do  not  think  you  are  partly  wrong-,  but 
absolutely  and  entirely  so. 

Mr.  Andrew  Lang  says: 

As  to  Captain  Smith;  I  am  sorry  that  as 
far  as  his  Pocahontas  story  g-oes,  I  fear  that 
the  critics  are  rig-ht  who  think  that  he 
romanced.  I  think  I  have  written  on  the 
matter,  perhaps  in  the  preface  of  the  new 
edition  of  my  "Myth,  Ritual  and  Religion, " 
and  I  have  read  American  criticisms  to  that 


JOHN  MARSHALL  AND  HIS  TIMES      259 

effect.  However,  he  is  amusing*  whether  he 
is  inventive  or  not.  I  never  read  the  story 
of  Tennyson  and  the  £300  before.  But  even 
if  it  is  true,  it  was  only  his  fun  and  chaff, 
uttered  in  the  presence  of  some  dull  ass,  who 
repeated  without  understanding  it. 


I 


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